


1994

by apersonwhowrites



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 49,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26326834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apersonwhowrites/pseuds/apersonwhowrites
Summary: If someone offered you a second chance at life, would you take it? As the Other Side collapses, Bonnie isn't alone - Damon is beside her, holding her hand as they brace themselves for whatever comes next. She is hoping for oblivion. But when she wakes up with no memory of her life until that very moment, she soon realizes her only company is a mysterious stranger.But she feels like she knows Damon Salvatore, though she can't figure out how or why that is.They aren't truly alone, though. Someone is watching, playing games with Bonnie and Damon, destroying the peace Sheila had hoped to give her granddaughter. Now Bonnie must reconcile reality and fantasy, and doing so might not be as easy as she thinks.
Relationships: Bonnie Bennett/Damon Salvatore, Bonnie Bennett/Malachai "Kai" Parker, Caroline Forbes/Stefan Salvatore, Elena Gilbert/Stefan Salvatore, Liam Davis/Elena Gilbert
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	1. Memories

* * *

**~Chapter One~**

* * *

_“It's all right if you can't remember. Our subconscious is spectacularly agile. Sometimes it knows when to take us away, as a kind of protection._

_~Kathleen Glasgow~_

* * *

The world is on fire.

It is so bright that opening my eyes is impossible. The scorching surface underneath me is burning my flesh; it feels like my skin might melt off my bones. My first instinct is to get away from the source of the pain as quickly as possible, but as soon as I try to move, I realize I can’t.

I’m stuck.

_Maybe this what death is truly like; maybe I’ve been doomed to an eternity of suffering._

I wonder if it is because I spent so much time interfering with the forces of nature, if my ancestors are so angered by my choices that they made sure I would have to pay the price. But, then I remember what Grams said when she refused to pass through me— _you’re not the only one who can make sacrifices…_

I had been so preoccupied with making sure our plan went off without a hitch, that I hadn’t really considered what she meant by it, and I’m wishing that I did. Then my current predicament might make some kind of sense.

It’s too late to sort it all out now. I thought I knew pain; I experienced all the ways a supernatural being could perish. I’ve felt the agony of a knife raking across the delicate skin on my neck, endured the torture of a slow decapitation, like hands that never actually touched me gripped my skull and yanked and twisted with other-worldly strength. It made the process slow and excruciating. I’ve had my heart vicariously ripped out of my chest cavity and my bones crushed; my body drained of blood and burned with vervain.

But none of those horrors compared to _this._

The temperature around me rises, which surprises me, as I assumed it couldn’t get any hotter. And then my head starts to ache. It’s more tolerable than the burning sensation, as it’s a dull type of discomfort. I’d gladly take this if I have any say in the matter.

As soon as I form the thought, however, my headache becomes so sharp that I wonder if a demon is shoving an ax through my frontal lobe. My brain is seconds away from exploding, the pressure unbearable.

And then the back of my head smacks into something very hard at a very rapid speed. I open my mouth to scream, attempt to open my eyes so I can know what’s going on, but I instantly regret it. The light had dimmed ever so slightly, but not nearly enough to avoid causing any kind of lasting damage. Something I’m beginning to think is the only thing I’ll be able to have in this version of the hereafter.

But just as my agony is reaching a crescendo, I’m granted a reprieve.

The pain halts abruptly, dropping off and leaving me with a feeling of _nothingness._ It’s a very strong anesthetic, numbing my entire body, desensitizing my nerve-endings, and then…

_~~X~~_

_(Parts and date unknown…)_

As the numbness wears off, I slowly allow myself to open a single eye. When I’m sure my retinas won’t be assaulted with massive amounts of light, I relax and allow myself to get a better look around.

I don’t recognize my surroundings.

Above me, is a ceiling fan with pretty petal-like fixtures attached to it. My hands grab at the fabric beneath me. It’s extremely soft. Satiny, almost. I push my body up, legs kicking at the fluffy blankets that cover me.

The bed I’m lying in is huge—a California king-sized mattress that is so large that I have to crawl to the edge to stand up. The bed frame is so high up, that my feet don’t touch the floor. Getting up is like hopping off a barstool.

I wander over to the other side of the room, stopping in front of a dresser with an ornate-looking mirror attached to it. I press my fingers against the glass—it’s cool and smooth. When I pull my hand away, I see that I’ve left a smudged handprint in my wake.

I’m not sure what I was expecting to see when I looked at my reflection, but the action leaves me feeling strange. A pair of bright, green eyes stare back at me, warm caramel-toned skin that looks both glowing and flushed, dark hair cut in a chin-length bob.

The young woman in the mirror is familiar, and on a conscious level, I know that she is _me,_ but who am I exactly?

I suddenly feel so off-kilter that I back away from the vanity and wind up half-falling, half-sitting on a chaise lounge that is situated at the foot of the bed. My whole body begins to tremble, and I close my eyes, taking a deep breath in, holding it for a moment.

When I release it, I open my eyes and contemplate my dilemma, starting with the most basic of my observations. Somehow, I’m not really surprised by my appearance—as soon as I saw my reflection, I _knew_ that nothing had really changed. The scary part is my complete lack of memory of anything else.

I don’t know my name, my birthday, my occupation, what happened in the past, what my present entails, or what hopes I have for the future. My brain has been wiped clean, it seems, leaving me with a blank slate and no idea where to go from here.

 _Okay,_ I think, _let’s start with the obvious—the bed and dresser tell me that I’m in a bedroom, but I don’t know who it belongs to…_

I look around until I spot something that might be helpful—a picture sitting on a cream-colored nightstand beside the bed.

I scramble over to it, picking the wooden frame up to study it in greater detail. I look at myself first, I am smiling, and I don’t appear to be much younger than my current self. The only difference I can see is the length of my hair, which is considerably longer in the photograph. I’m more interested in the two girls I’m sandwiched between—one of them has wavy blonde hair and blue eyes and the other has long, straight brunette-colored hair with chocolate brown eyes. All three of us are grinning from ear-to-ear, arms slung around each other’s shoulders.

I desperately wrack my brain for any memory of them, but I come up with nothing. I’m beginning to get frustrated—I’m a baby deer standing on shaky legs, trying to get her bearings.

And failing miserably.

I’m just about to throw the picture at the wall when I stop myself, arm freezing in its place behind my ear. A strong urge to remove the photo from its encasement takes over me. I flip the frame over, pry the backing off, and let it hit the wooden floor with an unimpressive _smack._

On the back of the picture, I see three sets of words. When I scan each group of letters, I figure out that they aren’t just random letters, but a list of names with directional words scribbled in parenthesis beside each one.

 _Caroline Forbes (left)_  
Bonnie Bennett (center)  
Elena Gilbert (right)

Unfortunately, the new information doesn’t dredge up any prior knowledge.

According to this, my name is Bonnie. The blonde girl is Caroline and the brown-haired girl is Elena. And that’s if I _trust_ the validity of something scribbled on the back of a picture I don’t recall posing for. I’m inclined to believe the caption, though, because I don’t have another reference to compare it with.

I fold the thick photo paper in half and go to stick it inside a pocket I do not have. I’m not dressed. And by that, I mean I’m completely naked. I’m not even wearing undergarments—that brings a new meaning to my baby deer analogy.

The dresser is empty, though. What good is a bureau without any clothes inside going to do me? I franticly search for anything wearable when I come across a top, a pair of jeans, and boots in a messy pile, partially obscured from its place sticking out from under the bed. At first, I thank my lucky stars that I won’t have to walk around what is presumably someone’s home for underwear.

When my fingers brush over the fabric of the tank top, I yank my arm back. For whatever reason, this shirt gives me weird vibes. But it’s all I’ve got at the moment, so I push through the eerie feeling of dread and dress.

Each article of clothing smells strongly of an odd combination of things, like a dwindling fire, dirt, and a clean, woodsy scent that sends a jolt of something pleasant down my spine. I am taken aback by the sense of déjà vu I’m experiencing; struggling to figure out _why_ I feel like I’ve worn this outfit before when I’m seeing it for the first time today.

I shake my head, place the photo in the back pocket of my pants, and head for the door. I open it with caution, suddenly frightened because I have no way of knowing who or what I’ll be faced with.

An empty hallway, for starters. I shut the door behind me, cautiously venturing over to the railing. I peer over it and get a complete view of what appears to be a family room. It’s painted in warm tones—ruts-colored walls and dark brown furniture with a small fireplace. Mounted on the wall across from the couch is a small television and besides that, a row of pictures ranging from paintings of orange flowers to photographs of random objects.

The silence is unsettling.

I feel like I’m being watched, though I haven’t seen anything that might indicate the presence of another person. No random noises or movements. And nothing that points to anyone having been here earlier—the white carpeting isn’t marred by stains or matted down after years of people walking on it.

It could’ve been installed moments before I got here for how pristine it is.

I tiptoe down the stairs, passing by a dining room with the same color scheme, and into the main room on the first floor. Off to the right is a tiny kitchen with shiny, black appliances and cherrywood cabinets. The countertops are spotless—devoid of what one would put atop them. No toaster or bowls, no drying rack or dishes, no spice rack or cookbooks. The pegs mounted on the wall are bare, not a single pot or pan in sight.

I open a drawer, and nothing is inside. I take a quick look inside a cupboard, which ends up being empty. The pantry doesn’t have any food on its shelves. The fridge is on, but not for any purpose, as it is empty as well.

I’m getting a little frustrated—you’d have thought I’d have found _something_ that might let me know where I am. Maybe the name of the homeowner—which _must_ be either Caroline Forbes or Elena Gilbert based on the only personalized item I’ve found thus far.

The only other thing that might be of use to me is the only picture featuring _human beings_ hanging beside a black-and-white image of a mason jar on a picnic table.

This still features an older woman with curly hair and a bright smile—and green eyes that look exactly like mine. I feel as though I should recognize her, but I don’t. So, I decide to investigate it further.

I reach for the frame, expecting it to come right off the wall.

Only it doesn’t.

I yank it harder, but it remains in its original spot—it doesn’t move an inch. So, I pull it again, with enough force to open a jammed door.

It doesn’t budge.

Placing my foot against the base of the wall for leverage, I put every ounce of strength I can muster into freeing the frame from the wall. A jolt runs up my arm.

I gasp, flying backward, crashing into the coffee table in the middle of the room.

I’m in shock. So frightened and bewildered that I remain on the floor for a good ten minutes, just staring at the photograph. It isn’t damaged. The sensation felt so intense to me that I am surprised that the edges of the frame aren’t charred.

_Because you’re going crazy… you’re probably imagining all of this._

I pinch myself on the thigh. _Hard._ And I definitely feel the brief spurt of pain the action causes, so I am fairly certain I’m not dreaming. My palms are resting on my legs, which are shaking so much that I don’t dare try to stand. I bring my knees to my chest, and I notice something that adds to the peculiarity of this whole situation.

The sleeve of my jacket is singed, which means I’m _not hallucinating._ I raise my hands and examine them, but I don’t see any burns or blisters, don’t feel any heat emanating from my flesh —it’s almost like I’ve healed myself in the time it took me to figure out what happened to me.

But that’s impossible.

Right?

Except I’m not really sure of the answer. Everything is so _strange,_ so unfamiliar, so bewildering… and yet, I’m considering outlandish theories. Impossibilities aren’t real. It’s far more likely that I smacked my head on something.

That, or perhaps this is a freaky fever dream.

Only, I have a sinking suspicion that isn’t why I woke up, sans memory, in a house that no one seems to be living in.

I finally collect myself, forcing my body upward, holding onto the table I flew into for support. Once I’m sure I can walk without toppling over, I make my way over to the front door, hand grasping the doorknob like it is the only thing keeping me from crumbling to the floor. Pulling it gently, I open the door inch by inch.

Slivers of daylight stream into the house. I see flashes of green and blue, soak in the warmth from the sun’s rays. Then, I listen closely for any signs of life: birds chirping, bees buzzing, dogs barking, kids laughing—but it is dead silent.

So, I step onto the cement steps and look around.

The houses look (and feel) oddly familiar—like I’ve seen them hundreds of times before. I haven’t, though, and I have no clue where I am. If I weren’t so out of it, I might have had the wherewithal to turn around, lock the door, and climb back into bed.

That won’t help matters, however, so I walk down the driveway, making note of the blue Prius parked on the street. Some other observances I want to put in my memory bank are the homes themselves—every single one has a porch of some kind, in addition to the uniform colonial architecture. Also, each yard is identical to the one beside it. Neat, freshly mowed grass and a rainbow of flowers lining the walkways.

My surroundings are perfect.

Uniform.

And while the neighborhood has minor deviations from the standard—for example, one front door is red, and another is white—the way everything _almost_ matches kind of creeps me out.

I stop at the end of the driveway, glancing to the left, right, and behind both of my shoulders. No one is outside either, at least as far as I can tell. But I can hear birds chirping in the distance, which informs me that I’m not completely alone, not the only living being around.

Something tells me to turn left.

So, that’s exactly what I do.

The sun is partially hidden behind a wispy cloud, its beams pushing through the vapor, shining down on me. It’s such a nice day. I’m surprised that I haven’t seen another person yet. I must have walked for at least twenty minutes and I still have no clue about where I am or how I ended up inside a labyrinth of wholesome houses—none of which seem to be occupied.

And yet, I have seen three cars parked on the street or in the driveway, depending on the vehicle’s size, three bikes, one scooter, and a child-sized truck that has seen better days.

I’m just about to give up and backtrack when goosebumps form on my arms and legs. A weird biological response because the sun is directly overhead and I’m wearing a coat. I so desperately want to blame the weather… if only I could convince myself that I’m just cold…

But I can’t.

I’m suddenly shivering because of an ominous realization—I’m not alone. Some _one_ or some _thing_ is here with me. This knowledge, and the unwavering certainty that follows, sends a spike of terror throughout my entire body.

And they are getting closer.

I spin to the side, whipping my head in all directions. I don’t see anyone… can’t hear the sound of footfalls on the pavement… but the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up.

A firm hand grips my shoulder.

I nearly jump out of my skin upon the unexpected touch. Whirling back, I come face to face with the most attractive man I have ever laid eyes on. Which, I admit, doesn’t mean much considering I can’t remember meeting anyone.

At all.

Ever.

He pulls his hand away slowly, a smile tugging on the corners of his lips. I should probably _do_ something. I don’t know who this guy is or what he’s capable of. This is the first time I’m seeing him; he could be a serial killer for all I know. In fact, my initial reaction screams _danger._

Only, that doesn’t matter because I don’t think I have the ability to move. Forget about running away—I’m trapped under this stranger’s icy blue gaze. My shoulder tingles even though he let go of me, his touch stays with me, and I’m idly contemplating if the sensation will ever dissipate.

“Hello,” he says, turning on the charm.

I squint, trying to make sense of why I feel like I know this guy, why my intuition says he is bad news, but another part of me knows that he isn’t a threat to _me._

“Who are you?” I ask, voice level. I cross my arms over my chest, hoping that I am exuding control, that I’m not afraid.

He smirks as if I should just _know_ his name already. “Damon. And who are _you?”_

His cocky attitude irritates me.

“Bonnie.”

Maybe it’s the way he lights an angry fire in my belly with his arrogance. Or maybe it’s because I feel the need to show this _Damon_ that I’m not disoriented, confused, and scared—except for, you know, the fact that I _am_ actually all of those things. Either way, how he’s gazing down at me, spurs the change in the way I carry myself.

I tip my chin upward, just a fraction of an inch, in a silent challenge. _Go on, try me,_ it says, _I_ dare _you._

Damon returns my look in full, not bothered by my attempt to assert dominance in the slightest. He leans in—closely—so that the tips of our noses touch, hand reaching up to tuck a lock of short, dark hair behind my ear. Electricity runs through my entire body. The sensation so intense, that I _swear_ I see a lamppost flicker in the distance.

Reflexively, I jerk my face away. But he doesn’t move, hand frozen in mid-air, eyes wide in shock. And then… nothing. It’s like he flipped a switch in his brain, one that disables knee-jerk reactions. The arrogance reappears, smirk more pronounced than it was moments ago.

The wind picks up, rustling the leaves and grass. It isn’t a forceful gust, though it is strong enough to blow my hair across my face.

“It’s nice to meet you, Bonnie,” he lilts, and I can tell he thinks he has complete control over the conversation.

 _Well,_ he’s _in for a rude awakening._ “Thank you—I’ll let you know if I can say the same about you later.”

“Looking forward to it,” Damon replies smoothly, not missing a beat.

I thrust my hand out, arm stiff, fingers close together. He shakes it firmly. And this time, when a jolt travels up my arm, we both pretend as though we didn’t feel it.

I can’t figure out how to word the questions I want to ask. They all sound weird and convoluted. _How did you get here? Why do I feel like I know you? Have you seen anyone else around here?_ Maybe I can fish for information without giving away the fact that I’m utterly confused, that I couldn’t remember my name until I saw it written down, that I truly have no clue as to where I am.

“You’d think more people would be outside—it’s so nice.”

He snorts derisively. “Really? That’s how you’re going to play this?”

“Play what?” I snap defensively, tapping the heel of my boot against the pavement.

“Your pathetic attempt to get information from me. Small talk about the weather? That’s the most unoriginal ploy I’ve heard in my entire life. And trust me, I’ve heard a lot of them.”

Something tells me that his statement isn’t hyperbolic. “Okay, then. Tell me what’s going on.”

“You’re the only other person I’ve come across.”

“Yeah, out here, maybe. Have you thought about knocking on someone’s door?”

“I would, but I forgot to put on my Girl Scout uniform this morning,” he snips.

I saunter past him without saying another word, marching up to the house closest to where I was standing. It’s the same as every other building I’ve encountered so far. When I reach the front door, I see a knocker—it looks like something I might expect to find on a castle.

Pushing it into the door forcefully, I pause and step back so whoever opens it has room to join me on the porch if necessary. Except, nothing happens for several long moments, and I begin to feel uneasy about my plan.

Something is _wrong._

Horribly, horribly wrong.

And I have no logical explanation for how I know this, I just _do._ That’s probably what frightens me the most. Sure, waking up in a bed with no memories of anything _ever_ sent me into a panic. But sensing things—the déjà vu—it’s just too much.

Not to mention, my only company is _Damon—_ who, by all accounts, is the biggest douchebag in wherever this is. I guess that actually makes him the _only_ douchebag, but I’m sure if anyone tried to take that title from him, they wouldn’t succeed.

And I’ve only known him for an hour!

That doesn’t sit right with me, however, because while it appears that way on the surface, it certainly doesn’t feel that way.

“How’s the friendly neighbor schtick going?”

A shiver runs down my spine when his breath tickles my ear. He’s so close, so incredibly close, and I’m not sure what to think about the way my heartbeat picks up.

“No one’s home,” I say quietly. “They must have more than one car.” I point to the orange minivan parked on the curb.

“Or no one lives here at all,” Damon supplies, reaching out to grab the doorknob.

My hand shoots forward, fingers wrapping tightly around his wrist. “Breaking and entering is illegal, Damon!”

“Well, if the door’s unlocked, it’s technically only entering,” he escapes my grasp with ease.

“That doesn’t make it any less illegal!”

Damon looks from left to right. “I don’t see anyone that’s going to stop me.”

“I am!” I declare firmly.

This makes him laugh—a genuine laugh as if I’ve told him a joke. He pats my head in between guffaws. “You’re five-feet of judgmental disapproval—you aren’t strong enough to stop me.”

To illustrate his point, he tries to open the door and has very little luck with it. The only thing he’s done is confirm that breaking will once again be part of the equation. I smirk triumphantly. But he isn’t done… in a movement so quick I would have missed it if I blinked, he turns the knob and it cracks, and the lock is now useless, pieces of the doorframe splintering.

I keep my composure, though on the inside I’m stunned. He might have a very nice physique (at least, from what I can tell) although, I would’ve never guessed he’d be capable of doing that much damage with such a subtle action. The leather jacket kind of makes it hard to be sure, but he’s no bodybuilder.

Definitely not strong enough to break a door with sheer strength.

“Show-off,” I grumble, rolling my eyes as I survey what little I can see of the inside.

“I prefer sexy—I’ve never met a woman who wasn’t impressed by my… dexterity.”

 _How do you remember meeting people?_ I don’t dare vocalize my inquiry, though. Instead, in the most sardonic tone I can manage, I say, “you’re looking at her.”

“Am I?”

I really shouldn’t be taunting someone who could easily snap my neck. It’s not very smart. But I don’t think I can stop myself. Every time he comments in that condescending tone of his, I just _have_ to put him in his place.

I’m about to reply, but his back is already facing me.

Damon kicks aside a pile of rubble falling from the broken entryway and tosses a smug look over his shoulder. “Do you want answers, Bon Bon?”

 _That_ will not become a thing. Who comes up with nicknames for s stranger?

“That’s not my name; don’t call me that. I barely know you! Why do you think you can give me a pet name?” Before I realize what I’m doing, my feet have already carried me inside.

“It just feels right,” he says with another casual shrug.

I open my mouth to respond, but my voice catches in my throat. The temperature outside had been cool and crisp. Not in here. Whoever lives (ed) here must have not cared to fix the air conditioner before leaving.

It feels like winter—if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it’s about thirty degrees Fahrenheit. It’s so cold I can see my breath. Hastily, I zip my jacket up, wrap my arms around my torso, and tuck my hands in my armpits.

“This isn’t good…” I warn Damon, who is somehow unaffected by his surroundings.

“No,” he agrees, looking around the foyer. “But, in my experience, that means we’re in the right place.

Well, fuck. That makes no sense—this whole reconnaissance mission is crazy. I should just go back to the other place, at least I had a warm bed there.

But I still continue to venture deeper into the house.

The floorboards creak under the weight of our feet. It also smells musty, like no one has aired the house out in years. It’s also dark, not so dark that I can’t see a thing, but not light enough for me to make out what the silhouettes around us are.

It’s probably best if I keep my eyes trained on Damon. He’s not struggling to navigate through this disturbing funhouse.

When he stops suddenly, I don’t catch it in time. I run right into his back, earning a face full of leather and an irritated groan.

“Watch where you’re going!”

“I would—if I could see anything in the first place!”

Anger thrums in the air, and I feed off of it. I’m so frustrated that I ball my hands into fists, clenching them so tightly that my fingers ache. And then I’m caught off guard—startled by the faint light dancing on the walls.

I turn my head slowly, looking for the source of the flickering lamplight. I find it immediately—and it’s not a lamp, but a candle sitting on a circular table. The flame burns wildly, large, and warm.

_So warm…_

I’m transfixed by it. Mesmerized. This little fire makes me feel _good,_ but I don’t understand why. I just want to get closer to it… maybe then I won’t freeze to death in this hellhole…

I’m almost there… so close I can feel the anticipation burning in my fingertips.

But something pulls me back.

Damon, with his stupidly weird strength, pushing my hand away from the flame.

“Are you crazy?” he exclaims.

“I—”

I’m actually grateful that he cuts me off because I don’t know what to say.

“Forget it—” he commands. “Look.” He gestures to a postcard stuck underneath the candleholder.

Damon gingerly takes the candle in his hand. “What does it say?”

I pick it up, inspecting the photograph closely. Of course, I don’t see any mailing information on the front, but I’m too stuck on the picture itself to care. I know exactly where we are now.

Because the house featured on the postcard is somewhere I’ve been. The house I woke up in. The one I wanted to go back to, with the orange interior and the Prius sitting out front.

Below the photo is a sentence that gives me more context.

_Welcome to Mystic Falls—we’ve been awaiting your arrival…_


	2. The Watchman

* * *

**~Chapter Two~**

* * *

_Sitting around the house,  
watching the sun trace shadows on the floor.  
Searching for signs of life, but there's nobody home._

_~Better Than Ezra, Good~_

* * *

I don’t say anything at first.

My mind is reeling, trying to make sense of it all. My first thought is that the postcard means absolutely _nothing—_ the fact that it features the house I woke up inside is just a coincidence. Many places like to showcase the landmarks, scenery, and buildings, as it helps attract tourists.

But Mystic Falls isn’t exactly well-populated, so I know my gut instinct is probably right—whoever left this here wanted someone to find it and while I tell myself that _anybody_ could have waltzed into the house, I am pretty sure that _we_ are the ones who are meant to see it.

I turn the card over, and my suspicions are proven to be true. In, bright-red pen, probably printed using a quill and inkwell, I read the message written in the provided space:

_Dear Bonnie and Damon:  
Can’t wait to officially meet you!  
xoxo_

The writer pressed the pen so hard against the page that the ink is bleeding, still wet, and dripping down the card. In some places, I see smudges, and on the corners, I notice some that resemble fingerprints.

“Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

Wordlessly, I pass the note to Damon. At first, I stare straight ahead—at the now-empty spot we found it—and when my companion clears his throat, I rip my gaze away to see his reaction.

His eyes are scanning every inch of the postcard now, reading so fast that he can’t possibly comprehend the message, and then he lets out a low whistle, “… that’s really creepy.”

“Duh,” I snip, disappointed that he has nothing better to add.

“Not everyone can be as eloquent as _you,”_ he fires back, blue irises flashing in anger.

I don’t like how intense everything feels—from the expression on his face to my own emotional reaction. I sound far more invested than I want to convey when I reply, “well, _that’s_ obvious.”

“God, you’re so _judgy,”_ the exasperation in his voice is thick.

We both pause, an uncomfortable silence falling over us. Why do I feel like I’ve heard those words before? I squeeze my eyes shut and try to _think._ There has to be at least one memory that could give us a little clarity, but I can’t recall a single thing.

“Forget about that for now,” I instruct, shaking my head as if it needs to be cleared. “Do you know this place?” I tap the photograph with my pointer finger.

“Actually, I think I do.”

 _Okay, now we’re getting somewhere…_ “When I… woke up, _that’s_ the house I was in.”

“And that matters because…?”

“I don’t know!” I snap, throwing my hands up. “I don’t remember anything! I just know I was there—I don’t know why or how… I couldn’t even tell you the address!”

“Twenty-two Broken Arrow Road,” Damon says, pointing to the caption typed on the bottom of the postcard.

“Okay— _but why?_ Why did I wake up there? And if I was on Broken Arrow Road, where were _you?”_

Damon searches the room for more pictures. He looks under the table, pulls the tablecloth up, and grumbles to himself, all the while firelight illuminates his handsome features. Sighing in frustration, he blows the flame out and slams the candle down.

The wax crumbles into pieces upon impact, dripping over the linen and adhering to it. The fabric now sports a few holes from the lingering heat, the stench of mothballs and burnt wood mixing in the air, creating a foul odor that makes me gag.

Damon, however, isn’t bothered by it. “I woke up in Salvatore boarding house. At least according to the huge picture hanging in the dining room.”

 _Okay, that doesn’t ring a bell_. Quite frankly, neither does Broken Arrow Road, really. The name means nothing to me, other than the fact that I was there earlier, but that doesn’t mean the man with questionable morals standing before me won’t have more context.

“My family must have owned it,” he goes on. “Salvatore is my last name. I’m kind of bummed about it—those bastards didn’t do any upkeep. Stupid, lazy assholes.”

“I’m sure they’d be delighted to hear you speak about them like that,” I roll my eyes, and then I freeze. How did he figure out he’s related to the owners of the boarding house? Does he know something I don’t? Is this a trap?

I back away, creating a considerable amount of distance between us. And yet, despite evidence to the contrary, I don’t think he’ll hurt me. Call it the world’s dumbest (and most mixed-up) gut instinct, but whatever evil lurks around the corner, it has nothing to do with this stranger.

Still, it’s better safe than sorry.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” he demands, irritation blatant.

“Like what?” I take a step forward, trying to erase the sense of unease I created.

He returns the eye-roll I gave him with a massive amount of dramatic flair. “Like you think I’m going to eat you—calm down, Little Red Riding Hood, I don’t bite—hard.”

“I do,” I retort menacingly.

“And I might like that,” he leans in close, lips dangerously close to me, just barely grazing the skin on my neck. And then, in the space of a second, he’s back to where he was originally standing.

 _Laughing_ at me.

The fury I experienced earlier returns. “You’re a creep!”

He has a smartass remark on the tip of his tongue, and I brace myself for it, but he drops on the dusty floor instead. Damon clutches his head, writhing in pure agony, and I feel a stab of worry—what the hell is going on? And then I have this sudden, unexplainable fear that he may _die._ I can’t let that happen—I don’t have a good reason to feel this way about someone I don’t know, who seems to take pleasure in watching me squirm, but _I can’t._

As soon as I crouch beside him, he relaxes, and the pain he felt moments ago looks like it’s gone.

“Fuck!” Damon snaps, regarding me with vitriol. “I _was_ kidding!”

“Okay, maybe that’s why I’m trying to help,” I tell him, confused.

I mean, I didn’t even touch him—why is he acting like I rammed his head into the floor?

“By…” he begins, furrowing his eyebrows. “I don’t know why I did that… said that… I mean…”

“… why you acted like a serial killer?” I supply for him.

“No, I- I- pretend this never happened, okay?”

“Depends, are you going to kill me in my sleep?”

“As tempting as that sounds… I’m going to pass on that one. Maybe another time.”

I believe him, I don’t know if I should, but as of right now, all we have is each other. And it is _supposed_ to be like that—that understanding is why I offer him my hand. He looks at it and then at my face, scrutinizing me as if I’m the one with the odd capabilities.

So far, the only one who’s done anything extraordinary is Damon—who had been so fucking _smug_ when he practically ripped the locked door off the hinges.

“I don’t bite,” I say. “Hard.”

“You’re _so_ funny. Where’d you get that joke?” my hand tingles when he touches me and I know I’m going to just have to adapt to it, but it seems impossible. Even though it’s happened every single time we’ve made contact, I keep thinking that maybe it will stop.

“Some jerk told it to me.”

“He sounds clever.”

We make our way back to the front of the house, stepping over the mess we created. Damon doesn’t give it a second thought, but what if the owners return? What will they do?

Damon sighs, and his next remark causes me to wonder if he’s a mind reader, too. “I don’t think anyone’s coming back.”

“I didn’t say anything about that!”

“You don’t have to _say_ anything—it’s written all over your face. Have you never had any fun before… taken a walk on the wild side?”

“Destroying private property is _not_ fun,” I say, and I almost wish I could take it back—my tone definitely had a holier than thou air to it.

“Says the mayor of Boringville.”

I realize we aren’t going our separate ways. He had come from the opposite direction, so why is he following me to Broken Arrow Road?

I halt abruptly, thinking I’d catch him off guard, but he easily maneuvered around my body, turning around so we are once again face-to-face.

“Isn’t _your_ house on the other side of the neighborhood?”

“Yes,” says Damon, as if he doesn’t understand why I’m asking.

“Then, why are you following me?”

“I can’t get back in the hellhole—I thought I told you that.”

“Um, _no._ No, you didn’t.” I plant my hands on my hips and glower at him.

He smiles back at me innocently, like his slip of the mind had been a mere oversight. “Oh, well, I am now. I can’t get back into that stupid house, so, I’m going to stay with you—roomie.”

“Why can’t you just break the door down. You know, as you did before?”

“I’ve reached my ‘defacing buildings’ quota for the day.” He replies, as though it should be obvious.

“Can’t you just look for an unlocked door?”

“You know, I hadn’t considered that…” he taps his chin thoughtfully.

“See?” I say, holding my hands up in excitement. “Problem solved.”

“… I’m not going to do that.”

“Excuse me?”

Damon leans in closer. “I’m not wasting my time. Not when I know you have access to a house already.”

“We don’t know each other!” _But you do,_ a voice whispers in the back of my head.

“Don’t we, though?” he breaths, and I’m worried at how easily the heady scent of leather and cedarwood overwhelms my senses, muddling my thoughts… tugging at something I can’t quite figure out.

I shake my head, snapping back to the here and now. “Not until… “I look at the sun’s low position in the dark blue sky. “About three hours ago.”

“That’s an eternity.”

Instead of humoring the jackass, I stomp away, continuing the trek to my starting point as if he isn’t still walking beside me.

“Please, Bon Bon?”

“I thought I told you to stop calling me that,” I snip, refusing to look at him.

“I didn’t—but if you want me to, I guess I can consider it… for a price.”

I huff indignantly. “This isn’t a negotiation.”

“Whatever—you’ll see it my way eventually.”

“Oh, and what makes you think that?” I ask, snorting.

“Just call it a hunch.”

Damon’s explanation leaves me unsettled. I’ve had enough hunches for the day, all I want to do is crawl back into that giant bed and close my eyes, hoping I’ll wake up and magically remember all that I’ve forgotten.

By myself.

But I don’t think I have a chance in hell of getting rid of Damon Salvatore.

* * *

When I open the door to the house, I expect to have to race to shut it before Damon slinks inside. So, I’m surprised when he hangs back, lingering in the entryway, not making a move to cross the threshold.

“Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly developed a sense of etiquette,” I say coolly and for some incomprehensible reason, I don’t slam the door before he can answer.

He flashes me that charming smile, propping himself up against the doorframe. “I like to keep people guessing.”

“Good night, Damon.” I begin to close the door.

“You’d really leave me out here all alone?” he asks, sulking. Though, I don’t find it to be sincere.

“Yes.” I push the door forward slightly, gauging his response.

“I could freeze to death,” he points out, and I tell myself it’s only a coincidence when the wind picks up. I don’t believe that either, as he certainly didn’t have any problems back at the abandoned house.

“Yeah, _okay.”_

“That means my death will be on your hands…”

Well, I can’t really argue with that. And I don’t like it—I feel like I’ve been backed into a corner. Uncomfortable, torn.

Damon uses my hesitation to his advantage, shivering dramatically when the wind blows even harder.

“Fine,” I relent before I really know what I’m agreeing to. “But you sleep on the couch.”

“I’m sure there’s a spare bedroom.”

I can’t actually dispute that claim, as my explorations were pretty much all on the lower level. “If you can find one—don’t ask me for help looking, though. I think you’d be more comfortable on the floor.’

“You’re such an accommodating host.”

“Whatever,” I grumble, turning to walk away.

“Wait…” Damon calls after me. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

I spin around. “You can drop the polite act now. I already said yes.”

“To what exactly?”

“Are you an idiot?”

“Maybe.”

“I said that you can stay here… come on in.”

“Thank you; I think I will.” He breezes inside, shutting the door with the toe of his boot, moving past me and into the living room.

He sits on the sofa, kicking his feet onto the coffee table—as if he owns the place. As if _I_ own the place, which isn’t the case. Then, his gaze flits from picture to picture, from the black-and-white snapshots of random objects to the photo of the older woman with curly hair and wise facial expression.

He gets this startled look on his face, like something about this room… that older woman… seems familiar, but he also seems like he can’t quite put his finger on the finer details.

I know… I’m positive that I wear the same expression for the same reasons.

“Remember something?” I ask casually as if it doesn’t matter to me at all.

“Do you know anything about Mystic Falls?”

I shake my head slowly. Nothing except for what I’ve been able to glean thus far.

Damon nods—he anticipated this response. “You have no idea about anything, do you?”

I’m mildly offended by that. “If you think I’m stupid—”

“No,” he scoffs. “You’re a lot of things, most of them annoying, but I know you’re not dumb.”

“You got that from spending less than half a day with me?”

“I can’t really explain why, but yeah.”

“Well, then, Sherlock—what do _you_ know?”

“Let’s see…” he acts like he’s solving a complicated math problem in his head, writing numbers in the air, scrunching his face just so. “I know I woke up on the floor of my family’s boarding house, I know who I am and that this is the town I grew up in, I remember that I have a younger brother… and that’s about it. I’ve got no clue about why this shithole town is deserted’ if that’s what you think.”

He’s telling the truth—at least part of the truth. His voice remained steady as he spoke, and I couldn’t spot any other signs a liar might exhibit. However, I know he’s holding something back, but I have no idea what. I’m also wondering why he remembers all that and I’ve got nothing—except for what the back of a 4x6 photograph told me.

Also, I don’t understand why he would volunteer all of that information and be so secretive about whatever he’s hiding. “That’s… a lot.”

“What about you, Bonnie? What is it you really know?”

“My name,” I say, voice small and defeated. “That’s it.”

“That’s a dangerous thing to admit to a stranger,” he states, his tone light, teasing.

“If you were going to hurt me, you would’ve done it by now.”

“Probably,” he agrees.

“Absolutely,” I counter. I raise my eyebrows, waiting for his witty quip.

“Absolutely,” Damon repeats, leaving the comfort of the living room and heading into the kitchen.

He stands under the archway, staring straight ahead. “Well, whoever lives here keeps it well-stocked.

 _“What?”_ I exclaim, rushing over to him.

The empty kitchen from hours ago is gone, and I rub my eyes in shock. It _definitely_ didn’t look like this before I went outside. Now, I see a microwave on one of the counters, and a delicate-looking spice rack on another, accompanied by a row of cookbooks. Cookware hangs on the once-bare wall mounts and the pantry door is ajar, revealing shelves of snack foods, cereals, canned goods, and dried fruit. On the island, I see a slip of red paper.

Nervously, I approach the center of the room, that feeling we’re being monitored hitting me full force. “This place didn’t look like this before.”

“Context,” Damon says as he follows me.

“It didn’t have any of this stuff…” I explain, holding up a yellow dishtowel that hung on one of the cabinets below the sink. “It had _nothing.”_

I pull a drawer open to emphasize my point. It is filled with forks, spoons, and butter knives. Measuring spoons and whisks. Damon picks up a wooden spoon and examines it. “Interesting…”

“I’m not joking,” I snap irritably.

“I didn’t say you were, Nancy Drew, calm down. I believe you.”

I don’t say anything. Thankfully, I don’t have to attempt to dignify my reaction—I pick up the note and look it over. It’s not nearly as wordy as the previous one. In fact, it is far simpler and way more concise.

It only has two words; written in the same handwriting we saw on the postcard:

_Happy housewarming!_

And, like the last one, it isn’t signed.

Damon, who had read the note over my shoulder, shudders. “I think someone’s stalking you, Bon Bon.”

“Us,” I correct, voice grave because it isn’t just me. This includes Damon as well, and it makes me feel cold inside. Helpless.

“I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t say that.”

“Me, too.”

He places a firm, reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Well—I guess it’s good I insisted on staying with you. Now you have someone to protect you.”

“I don’t need you to protect me.” That fire burns in my fingertips, toes, and my stomach—the insane desire (no, _need)_ to contradict this man who has an ego that is way too overblown.

“Eh, we’ll see about that.”

“No, we won’t,” I say, and I mean it.

“Are you hungry?” he asks a moment later.

“What?” I furrow my brows. _That doesn’t have anything to do with the ominous calling card._ “No.”

“Good—this crap is probably laced with arsenic.”

 _Smart._ I guess it’s a good thing that amnesia and appetites don’t seem to mix. “Right…”

“We’ll go to the grocery store tomorrow,” he decides, already walking away.

“We?”

“Duh—” he mocks. “Splitting up never works—haven’t you seen _Scooby-Doo?_ Don’t answer that. It’s safer if we stick together.”

“And what are we going to do now?” I inquire, trailing behind my new roommate as he climbs the stairs.

 _“You_ can do whatever the hell you want— _I’m_ going to sleep of this shitstorm of a day.” Damon glances behind each door as he passes by, pausing in front of the bedroom I’ve decided to make my own.

“That’s my room,” I inform him.

“I figured as much.”

We reach the set of double doors at the end of the hall. Damon cracks the left one open, taking a look inside. A second later, he pushes both doors wide open, putting the master bedroom on display. It’s painted in that same orange hue as the living room, dark-stained, wooden furniture. A bed the same size as mine, a wardrobe, mirror, dresser, a bedspread covered in an orange floral pattern, yellow throw pillows, TV, white carpet, and a small hallway leading to the master bathroom.

“I’ll stay in here,” he announces smugly.

Surprisingly, I don’t mind. Something about my sleeping quarters makes me feel safe. “Okay.”

I turn on my heels, walking over to my bedroom. “Have a good night, Salvatore.”

“You, too…” he trails off after realizing he doesn’t know my last name.

“Bennett,” I fill in, all too aware of the photo burning a hole in my back pocket.

“Bennett,” he says experimentally. “I like it.”

Something tells me that those words are a high honor coming from Damon—if only he weren’t such a snarky jerk, I might actually grow to like him.


	3. The Devil You Know

* * *

**~Chapter Three~**

* * *

_One hand breaks another, broken bones can always mend  
The loss will be a blessing that will turn us back again  
‘Cause we don't wanna, we don't wanna, wanna walk alone forever  
We don't wanna live without each other in the end_

_~The Temper Trap, Dreams~_

* * *

_Place: 22 Broken Arrow Road  
Mystic Falls, Virginia_

_(Date and time remain unknown)_

* * *

I know it’s going to be a long night before my head hits the pillows—before I even make it back to my room, actually.

My mind is racing as I try to wrap my head around how the kitchen magically re-stocked itself in my absence. Damon said he believed me when I told him it was barren before now, but… did _I_ believe myself? It doesn’t make any sense—not that anything that happened today made sense—but you can’t conjure things out of thin air. And you certainly don’t make the object of your thoughts appear simply by _wanting_ it.

I’m dazed and even more confused by the time I close the bedroom door behind me. At first, I don’t venture any deeper into the room. I stay where I am, back pressed against the door, taking deep breaths. I need to center myself—I can’t let my imagination run wild like this. How will I ever ger back to wherever I’m supposed to be, who I was before today if I entertain crazy, implausible ideas?

Counting back from ten, mouthing each number as the seconds' tick by, I take in my surroundings once more. The bed is exactly how I left it—blankets bunched up, hanging off the side of the mattress, pillows crooked. And a glance at the bedside table confirms that the picture frame had been taken from its spot—because it’s on the floor, right where it fell when I dropped it in my haste to get the photograph.

But something has definitely changed.

At first, I think it must be a minor physical alteration, one so small it’s almost impossible to catch, but it isn’t something that can really be _seen._ It’s something that is _felt._

There’s a buzz of… _excitement_ in the air, and electricity that I’m in-tune with—it’s almost like I’m breathing it in, thriving on the strange energy as it burns in my fingertips. At first, the experience is rejuvenating, weird, but _good._

And then it becomes hot… too hot… as if I stuck my hand into a fire… and I remember how close I had gotten to actually doing just that before Damon stopped me.

The pain goes away, once again, leaving just as fast as it came. Everything is normal again. It makes me sad for some reason, like some vital part of _Bonnie_ is missing. And I’m worried that I won’t be able to survive without it.

_Don’t be ridiculous!_

How can a person miss something they never knew they had?

I don’t miss Caroline and Elena—the girls I looked so happy to be with, though I know I probably should… and I didn’t know Damon until we met face-to-face, so how could I miss him?

Except the gaping hole isn’t for a person, really. It came from whatever it is that causes all these weird vibes and eerie intuition and whatever it is that makes my pulse speed up whenever the only other human being, within what is probably a twenty-mile radius, touches me.

I trudge over to the dresser and open the first drawer. I figure I should make use of all the underutilized space in this funhouse and storing clothes—though dirty—where they should go seems like a good way to start.

Only, there isn’t any space for my jacket, top, or jeans.

The dresser is now filled to the brim with jeans, shorts, skirts, loungewear, and pants. The smallest drawer contains the bras and underwear I was in desperate need of earlier. A deeper inspection of the closet reveals a rack of dresses, shirts, and blouses.

I pull a t-shirt off a hanger, looking it over. It’s black with a picture of a starry night sky on the front with the words _Night of the Comet Festival ’09_ printed in an arch across the chest. On the back, I see a list of dates, the earliest one being September 1864. There is a single date—September 10th, 2009—written in orange, with an asterisk beside it, and every other numeral after that go up in increments of one-forty-five.

I have a sinking suspicion that this is more than just a t-shirt. That it holds some kind of value that I’ve yet to discover, but right now, it’s something comfy (and clean) to wear to bed. It smells like it’s been freshly washed, the faint scent of bergamot hanging on the fabric, beckoning to me like a hug from an old friend.

On a lark, I head back out into the hallway, a complete set of clothes in my arms. If the kitchen has all one would expect to find in it, I wonder if there will be toiletries in the bathroom…

I breeze by the staircase, but I stop short right before I reach my intended destination. There’s a tugging sensation in my chest, pulling me back to the stairs. I drape my clothes on the banister and cautiously make my way to the front door.

It’s locked—no one would be able to get inside—if there’s anyone else in Mystic Falls _to_ get in.

_Says the girl who illegally entered someone else’s house not too long ago._

Still, I’m relieved, though I opt to bring a chair from the kitchen into the foyer to wedge underneath the doorknob for good measure. I go through the rest of the house, repeating the process with the back door, and checking all of the windows to ensure they are locked, too.

Once I secure every possible entry point, the nagging feeling goes away and I’m able to return to my other mission. As I’d hoped, the bathroom is filled with items I don’t think were here before my arrival, but I’m happy to see them, nonetheless. The body wash gives off a strong scent of vanilla bean and coconut. The loofah is orange-and-white, and when I head over to the sink in search of a toothbrush, I find it sitting in an orange cup with a giant set of initials on it—B.S.B.

The same thing goes for the towel I got from the tiny linen closet. B.S.B. is stitched onto the hem. In orange letters and it smells exactly like my clothes. My brain gets fuzzy when I think about it all—the perfectly-sized outfits, the familiar scents, the letter B around every corner… it’s familiar, but none of it actually jogs my memories.

Defeated, I dress and retire to my room, which at this point, I’m beginning to suspect _really does belong to me._ I climb into bed, a trial in itself because I’m so short. I have to swing my leg over the side and push myself up.

I lie on my back, arms resting on my stomach, blankets at my feet, trying to fall asleep. The moonlight shines in through the window, creating a pretty pattern on the walls and floor. The wind is still howling outside, smacking into the house with so much force that a few shutters have probably flown off. If I listen closely, I can hear Damon making sarcastic remarks at whatever show he’s put on—after a moment, the title is said aloud.

_Baywatch._

I roll over onto my side, tuck my hand beneath the pillow. I try to tune out the background noise, thinking that is one of the reasons I can’t relax, but it isn’t. Not really. I’m a bit taken aback by it, but Damon’s commentary is not only funny; it’s comforting. It puts me at ease, knowing I’m not truly alone.

That thought spurs minor panic in me. _I_ checked the entire house—except for Damon’s room. I reach over, pounding on the wall as hard as I can with a closed fist.

“What do you want now, Judge Judy?” He grumbles, voice muffled by the barrier between us.

“Make sure your windows are locked.”

A faint chuckle. “Are you afraid the boogeyman is going to come and get you?”

“No,” I answer indignantly. “Your face will scare him off.”

_“Rude.”_

I sigh inwardly, rolling my eyes. “… Are you doing it?”

“Nope.”

I hit the wall again. If something bad happens because he can’t follow basic safety precautions, the boogeyman will be the least of his problems.

“God, if I do it, will you shut up?”

“Yes.”

I wait patiently, listening as he goes from window to window, securing the latches, smiling to myself.

“There it’s done—you can wipe the smirk off your face now.”

“I am _not_ smirking.”

“You need to learn to lie better.”

_“Good night, Damon.”_

“Sweet dreams, Bon Bon.”

_~~X~~_

I’m awakened the following morning by Damon, who decided it would be a good idea to flop down on the edge of my bed to get my attention.

“What is _wrong_ with you?”

“I would tell you, but I’m not willing to waste that kind of time. I’m _starving.”_

I glare at him, at his smug facial expression and pretty blue eyes. “How am I supposed to solve that problem for you?”

He opens his mouth to respond, hesitates, and finally says, “by being my shopping buddy.”

 _That is right,_ I say to myself, _he wants me to go to the grocery store with him._

I can only stare at him. Clearly, he has no reservations about doing whatever it is that he wants. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would care about having company, either. And yet… he followed me back here and refused to leave when I expressed distaste by his presence.

So maybe, in whatever life he had before now, he had been desperate for friends. Maybe that’s why he won’t leave me alone and he knows far more about his past than I do mine. Maybe I should try to be a little more open to his suggestions.

 _Nah,_ I decide, _that would give him too much satisfaction._

“Come on, Bon Bon!” he shakes my shoulder. “I’m _bored.”_

“Fine,” I sigh, tossing the covers back. “Get out so I can get ready.”

“Do I have to?”

I throw a pillow at his face and he catches it without batting an eyelash. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Good guess,” I grumble, hopping out of bed and making my way over to the closet.

“I’m good at a lot of things,” he says with a smirk.

I turn around, expecting to find him standing in the center of the room, but he isn’t there. I’m alone once again—the only sign that Damon had been here is the quiet _click_ of the door closing. I grab a random shirt and pair of shorts and lay my nightclothes on the foot of the bed.

When I’m done getting ready, I go downstairs and find Damon lounging on the couch, watching yet another episode of _Baywatch._ He’s changed out of his t-shirt and opted to wear a similarly colored flannel button-down.

“You have clothes here, too?” I asked, mildly surprised. The master bedroom is decorated in a feminine way that bore no masculine undertones. As a matter of fact, if I really think about it, the house—minus the guest bedroom—is done in the same style, painted with the same color scheme.

I haven’t seen anything to suggest more than one person resided here before we came along, much less two people with completely different fashion senses.

“No,” he says, pressing a button on the remote control. The television goes black. “I went out and got it last night.”

“From where? Wait… you _left_ me alone last night?”

“A thrift store, I think. I got a whole new wardrobe. And chill… it was only for two hours. I checked on you, so I was sure you were okay, and I made sure I locked the door on my way out.”

“You _came into my room?”_

He groans. “Again—no. I heard you talking in your sleep when I walked by. That’s really fucking annoying by the way, you should do something about that.”

“I don’t talk in my sleep.” Though, I suppose I can’t really claim otherwise—I don’t remember anything about myself.

“Sure, you don’t… now are you done interrogating me?”

“I wasn’t…” I begin, but I pause when Damon raises his eyebrows. “You should’ve told me you were going somewhere… that’s all.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

Why am I so upset he left me in the house? Nothing terrible happened. I wasn’t even aware of his absence. But it leaves me feeling vulnerable anyway. Our circumstances are so _creepy_ that anything could go wrong.

“… Besides, I’m going to take your outrage as a compliment.”

“Why? Because you’re an arrogant, short-sighted jerk?” I quip, hands planted on my hips, fingers curled into fists...

“No—because you were so against me staying here last night. It took me less than a day to get you wrapped around my finger.”

I recoil in disgust. “Ugh. Don’t flatter yourself asshole. I just know something strange is going on. I realized that there’s strength in numbers. Sure, I wish that didn’t mean that I have to deal with your annoying presence, but there are probably worse things out there than _you.”_

“So, better the devil you know than the devil you don’t… interesting.”

A chill runs down my spine. It’s not Damon himself who puts me ill-at-ease, but his summation of our reluctant partnership. I’m righter than I really understand, I think.

Because there just _has_ to be something else out there, whether it’s close by or far away, and chances are, it won’t be nearly as personable as Damon Salvatore.

 _That’s_ the scariest revelation I’ve had yet.

* * *

The only grocery store in town is rather small and just as abandoned as every other building around here. Well, it doesn’t have the same level of disarray as that house we broke into. Everything _looks_ brand-new, well-kept, neat, and clean.

The aisles are lined with all kinds of food—there’s a section for snacks, spices and herbs, coffee, soft drinks, and bottled water, a refrigerated section, produce, and baked goods. At the corner of each shelf, there’s a display for non-food items. Make-up, notebooks, sunglasses, little toys.

I notice that there is an entirely separate area for family-planning. I hadn’t considered it before, but I’m going to have to sneak off somehow and grab a box of tampons. Another major downfall of having a bizarre case of amnesia is the fact that Mother Nature could strike at any moment.

Damon wheels a shopping cart over, glancing at me before turning his head to figure out what I’m looking at.

Cue the agitated sigh that I’ve somehow grown accustomed to in such a short amount of time. He waltzes over to the shelf, picks up a random box, and throws it in the basket. “We should probably find you some Midol, too. Being trapped in a house with you while you’re on your period is probably going to be torture.

“I didn’t ask you to move in with me,” I remind him.

“Didn’t have to; it was written all over your face.”

“Why would I want to live in a ghost town with a stranger who has no idea what the word _boundaries_ means?”

“You’re not a stranger.” He states calmly, directing the cart over to a table with loaves of bread stacked upon it.

“We just met each other yesterday!”

“Then why does it feel like you’ve been nagging me for an eternity?”

Whatever witty reply I’d been planning on giving vanishes. _He’s right,_ I admit, _it really_ does _feel that way_. “I… don’t know.”

“Me either.” Damon gets a package of bagels and a small jar of strawberry preserves.

“I like cream cheese.”

“Fine—we’ll get cream cheese, too.”

We go on like this for the next several minutes, volleying the names of our favorite foods back-and-forth until the cart is almost full. I ransacked the frozen confections fridge for two tubs of ice cream and a box of orange cream bars. Damon loaded the bin with all the ingredients for baking basically anything and those needed to make spaghetti.

“How do we know this stuff isn’t expired or something?” I ask, inspecting a container of cookies he hands me.

The expiration date reads May 12th, 1994.

“Because of this,” he walks to the front of the store, breaks open the display case encased around a stack of newspaper, and strolls back over to where I stand in the middle of the bakery.

Then he shoves the front page in my face. I take it from him and pull it back to get a better look.

If this printing is up to date, that makes today May 10th, 1994.

_Okay, so this stuff is still safe to eat—if we rule out the possibility that it’s poisoned._

“It’s not lethal,” Damon deadpans.

“How do you know that?” I thrust the newspaper back at him, jabbing him in the chest. Of course, a better question would be, _how’d you know that was what I was thinking?_

“I checked this place out earlier. Ate a few boxes of cookies. I didn’t keel over and die or taste anything awful, so I knew we were in the clear.”

“You abandoned me this morning, too?” I ask, aghast. And then, “You ate weird stuff without knowing what was in it?”

 _“Last night,”_ he clarifies, agitation heavy in his voice. “I was going to ransack the place myself, but I thought it would be more fun if we did it together. And yes… I’ve done far more questionable things than eat suspicious baked goods.”

 _Oh._ I hadn’t been expecting him to say something so nice. “…Is it?”

He shrugs. “Surprisingly, yeah, it is.”

“And you didn’t want me to get sick, did you?”

“I guess not,” Damon mumbles, almost indiscernibly

I nod, ruminating over his admission. I guess the morning hasn’t been _that_ bad. I mean, we ended up figuring out today’s date, and that’s something. A definite step in the right direction. Also, this kind of confirms my first impression of Damon Salvatore; whoever he’s a threat to—and I’m sure he is—it’s not me.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously—don’t bring it up again.”

“I probably will,” I inform him with a small smile. Something tells me that I can’t let this blackmail opportunity slip past me.

“Oh, then, game on, Bon Bon. May the most devious man win.”

“Oh, I will.”

The rest of our shopping trip plays out with the two of us trading playful insults until we get close to the checkout lanes. Out of curiosity, I peek around the corner, on the off chance that I will see that someone else has been here with us the whole time.

I don’t see anything.

I press down on the silver bell sitting on the counter, next to an ad for cigarettes and a hand-written sign that proclaims: _If you were born after… you may not purchase any of the tobacco products we sell._

The appropriate date is scrawled on a sticky note and attached in the black space between the words _after_ and _you._

May 10th, 1976.

Below that, in print so small I can barely make out what it says, is the statement _eighteen years ago today._

I push the ominous feeling this announcement gives me, locking the date showcased on the shirt I wore to bed away, and ring the bell four times.

Damon’s hand closes around my wrist, preventing me from pressing it a fifth. “No one’s coming, Bennett.”

“Maybe they're just on a break…” I reason.

“It’s just you and me, Bon Bon,” he says. “We should go.”

“And not pay for this stuff?” I gesture to the overflowing cart.

“It’s not stealing if there isn’t anybody to collect money from us.”

“But… are you _sure…_ that it’s just us?” I ask, unsure of which answer I want to hear the most.

“Yeah,” he answers, his voice hollow and empty. “I’m sure.”


	4. Another Day in Wonderland

* * *

**~Chapter Four~**

* * *

_We found wonderland  
You and I got lost in it (wonderland)._

_~Taylor Swift, Wonderland~_

* * *

_Place: 22 Broken Arrow Road  
Mystic Falls, Virginia  
Date: May 1994_

* * *

Damon is a good cook.

Me, on the other hand?

I probably shouldn’t even go near the microwave.

Which makes Damon’s talent all the more impressive. And while I was grumpy that he excelled at something when I did not, that resentment disappears when he places a stack of pancakes in front of me, garnished with berries and paired with a side of bacon.

For a moment, I hesitate. For whatever reason, when I think of pancakes, the frozen kind you shove into the toaster oven comes to mind. I hate those things. I don’t know why, because I can’t even remember eating them, but it’s enough to make me reluctant to give Damon’s homemade breakfast a fair chance.

He rolls his eyes at me. “You’re _still_ mad that I confiscated the skillet?”

“I’m not mad,” I insist, turning my body away from him. “I’m offended that you somehow thought I was a walking fire hazard.”

“You are.” Damon deadpans, pushing the plate closer to me.

“Am not. And even if I was, I can handle a little fire.” I sound overly confident. It’s warranted, too, I just wish I had more than a gut feeling to back it up.

Surprisingly, Damon doesn’t argue with me. “Probably, but I can’t.”

“No, I don’t think you could,” I quip, and I’m no longer trying to get as far away from him as possible without getting up to leave the kitchen. I swivel back around, scooting my chair closer to the table.

Damon is sitting across from me, placemat bare save for a small glass filled to the brim with bourbon. “That’s not dinner—are you secretly saying your food tastes like shit?”

“No, I’m not hungry at the moment, but if I was, I would eat because my pancakes are God’s gift to the world.”

“I thought _you_ were God’s gift to the world.”

He smirks. “I am—only, I’m stuck here with the one person who can’t admit it.”

“I don’t think it’s morally acceptable to lie,” I pick my fork up, stick my tongue out at him, before giving in and taking a small bite of the meal Damon not-so-graciously prepared.

 _Fuck. They_ are _good._

It doesn’t erase my previous feelings about frozen pancakes, but I see now that this recipe is on a completely different level. I’m not going to _tell_ him that, of course, but it’s nice to know I won’t starve to death with my new personal chef around. I won’t accidentally give myself food poisoning, either though again, I will never tell him he’s the better cook.

When I look over to him, the strip of bacon in my hand, I notice that he’s downed his drink and is preparing to get up to get another one. “You’ll get drunk if you don’t eat.”

“I’ll be fine,” he calls over his shoulder, retreating to the other room to grab the bottle.

“Or you’ll be completely sloshed,” I snip.

“Either one is fine by me.” he rejoins me at the table, taking a huge swig from what looks to be an almost empty container.

“How can you drink all that and not get sick?” I ask, silently cursing the genuine curiosity in my tone.

Damon sets the bourbon down and regards me with an expression that is half amusement and half sardonic. “I’m not a lightweight.”

“According to you, you’ve only eaten handfuls of snacks from the store. How are you not even hungry?”

“I ate,” he says, not offering any further explanation.

“When?”

“I had a midnight snack when I went out the other night.”

I eye him skeptically. “Whatever. If you get too drunk to stand up, you can sleep on the couch down here. I’m not going to break my neck trying to carry you to your room.”

“Boo. You suck the fun out of everything, Bon Bon.”

“And you are a constant test of my patience—are we done stating the obvious?”

The glint in his eyes screams of an unspoken challenge. “Depends—are you going to tell me that those pancakes are the best thing you’ve ever put in your mouth?”

“Only because I don’t remember putting anything else in my mouth,” I shoot back, and when I hear the double-meaning in my words, I feel my face heat up. And then, when Damon gives me his famous smirk once again, I get defensive. “Oh, shut up! Why do you have to be such an asshole?”

“Because you make it so easy,” he replies. “And fun.”

“If you think embarrassing me is fun, then there’s something wrong with you.”

The level of arrogance in his voice goes up several notches. “If loving to tease you is wrong, I don’t want to be right.”

_~~X~~_

That night, instead of retiring to his room, Damon chooses to flop down on the sofa beside me, kick his feet up, and stretch his legs across my lap.

It takes me longer than should be acceptable to push him away. And, when he retaliates by putting his bare feet back in the same spot, I decide to just ignore him. All he wants is a reaction from me and I won’t give him the satisfaction of letting him know he’s succeeding.

Besides, Damon Salvatore makes a warm—and heavy—blanket.

“Put on _Baywatch,”_ he commands, attempting to wrestle the remote control from my hand when I bypass that channel completely.

I yank my arm out of his reach. “Haven’t you seen that episode, like, five times already?”

“No.”

I look at him, raising an eyebrow as if to say, “ _you expect me to_ believe _that?”_

He sighs. “Try four times.”

“That’s three times too many.”

“No, it’s _four_ times too many,” he corrects. “But there isn’t anything better on.”

“What about this?” I ask, pointing to the TV.

A blonde girl is eating pancake after pancake. She can’t stop, and she talking to her cat, an all-black feline with glowing eyes. And he talks back to her. Something about this show seems appropriate—Damon seems to agree because while he makes an agitated face, mouth twisted into an odd frown, I can see the smile fighting its way through.

“It figures you’d like this— _Sabrina the Teenage Witch.”_ He snorts derisively.

“What makes you say that?” I had meant to act outraged. Sadly, I know I truly want his honest response. He seemed so confident that I’d want to watch it, though neither of us has seen it before—at least, I _think._ I did have to check the TV guide booklet to get the show’s name.

Damon shrugs loftily. “I don’t know. It just gives off a _Bonnie vibe.”_

“A _Bonnie vibe?”_ I echo, puzzled.

“It just looks like it would be something you’d like. Don’t ask me why—it does.”

“Well, we _can’t_ watch it now,” I decide, flipping to the next station.

“Why not?”

“Because,” I say. “If I _do_ end up liking it, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

This time, we land on a movie—another TV guide consultation lets us know that it’s called _The Bodyguard._ And, according to the brief description in the magazine, it’s not something Damon would like, which makes me want to watch it even more.

I like the plotline, but an irritated Damon is the icing on the cake.

“I bet you can’t watch this entire thing,” I tell him.

“I hate you,” he mutters, but a smile cracks across his face and it’s clear he is just joking.

But I want to make sure anyway. “Why?”

“Because now I _have_ to watch it,” Damon explains as if I should already know his reasoning.

“Why?”

“To prove you wrong.”

I grin triumphantly. “But what if that’s what I want you to do?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “I can’t _let_ you be right about something—it’s sacrilegious.”

“You poor thing,” I pout, tone of voice mocking. “It must be so tough to be such an arrogant prick all the time.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, but I can tell you that being this fucking amazing is _exhausting._ Especially when it’s not appreciated.”

“Whatever.”

And our conversation halts—just like that. I’m silent as I try to follow the story—having missed the first ten minutes of the film. Damon is quiet for the most part, too. Only commenting on something when he thinks the dialogue is cheesy or the scene contrived. He even waits until a commercial break to bring me a bowl of ice cream. My movie-viewing partner must have taken my concerns to heart earlier because he made himself one, too. 

Sure, his sundae is more whipped cream than anything else—something he makes lewd remarks about—but it makes me feel good to see that he at least _tried_ to listen to me.

It’s even easy to ignore the pointed way he shoves a spoonful into his mouth.

My joy on the subject, however, doesn’t seem rational. Of _course,_ Damon would listen to what I had to say—I’m the only other person here. We’ve been stuck in Mystic Falls for a few days now, and we’ve yet to see anyone new emerge from the cookie-cutter houses that line the block.

Except, I don’t get the sense that whoever was in my life before this, actually considered my opinions or feelings. It’s so unpleasant that I squirm a little, elbow bumping into Damon’s side.

When his face registers the pain, he looks more agitated than hurt. But then he looks at me, and I must look pretty weirded out, because he’s anger subsides, and he regards me with confusion and worry. “What’s your deal?”

“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “I just got a strange feeling.”

He nods in understanding. “I’ve felt like that all day.”

“Damn it!” I slump my shoulders in defeat.

“You know, for someone who prides themselves on being a good person, you can quite be hurtful.”

“It’s not you,” I clarify. “I just wanted to blame it all on your pancakes.”

“Rude.”

“Self-centered.”

“It’s called _self-confidence.”_

I groan. Honestly, how can someone be so full of themselves all the time? “It’s _called_ delusion.”

“Oh Bonnie,” he shakes his head, tongue clicking against his teeth. “It’s only a matter of time before you drop the charade.”

“Thinking you’re an asshole isn’t a charade,” I insist petulantly, turning back to the movie, bowl balancing on Damon’s legs, arms crossed over my chest.

Neither of us says anything for a while, and I’m actually _watching_ the movie. Damon isn’t really doing the same—every so often he’ll make a noise or poke me in the ribs, trying to cajole me into breaking the strange quiet that permeates the living room.

I maintain my resolve and can do so until the credits roll. Damon, annoyed that nothing he did over the course of the past ninety minutes, seemed to bother me, swipes a finger through the whipped cream (he got a second helping when he was only halfway through eating the first one), and puts it on my nose.

Frustrated, I grab a tissue from the box on the coffee table. “Real mature, Salvatore.”

“I’m too old to care about my maturity level.”

“You’re in your twenties,” I say wryly. “That’s not exactly ancient.”

“I don’t know how old I really am,” he retorts, rolling his eyes.

“You know you have a brother out there somewhere, but you don’t remember your age?”

Damon laughs. Loudly, a deep belly laugh that I don’t find all that warranted. “That’s rich, coming from the person who doesn’t know anything about herself.”

“Not true—I know my name and I know I think you’re annoying—always have.”

“That’s so sweet Bon Bon, really, I’m touched. But I’m tired—it’s late and I need my beauty rest. Feel free to compliment me in the morning, though. It’ll make up for your lack of breakfast-making skills.”

He pats me atop the head, ruffling my hair. I bat his hand away but grab ahold of his wrist before he can pull away completely. Sleep hasn’t really been all that wonderful for me the past couple of nights. Actually, it took a turn for the worse when Damon told me he left in the middle of the night without my knowledge. I’d sooner yank my own teeth out of my skull than tell Damon Salvatore I really _do_ feel safer with him in the next room.

That would be admitting I had been wrong—and he was totally right.

The mere _thought_ of the embarrassment such an admission would cause makes me want to crawl under a rock and die.

But he knows something is up. It’s made obvious by how tightly I’m gripping his arm, unwilling to let go, to be alone down here until I get too sleepy to be alert.

“What?” he asks, voice dripping with all kinds of arrogance and snark. “Do you want to come with me?”

I drop his wrist as he has burned me. “No—I don’t want you messing my hair up.”

“But it looks cute like that,” he protests.

“Well, I think you’re cuter when you don’t speak, but _that_ never happens.”

“If you change your mind,” he starts, still smug. “You know where to find me.”

“Trust me,” I mutter under my breath as he walks away. “I won’t come looking.”

He leans over the banister, and I don’t need to look at his face to know he’s smiling. “You want to bet?”

I should probably be concerned about the competitive nature Damon brings out in me, but I try not to think about the effect he has on me.

Okay, so I can’t come up with a reason for it—and trust me, I’ve considered every avenue. And what scares me is not the way I react to him—not really—it’s how I _feel_ when I respond that’s worrisome. And I’m not sure why I feel so conflicted by it either.

That’s probably the worst part about it.

But I still reply with, “oh, I do.”

“Winner gets to be in charge of the remote for a week,” he sets the rules as if he’s spent a great deal of time figuring them out.

Also, I’m kind of surprised that the reward for winning has a timetable attached to it. While we can clearly see the days turning into nights, that we try to mark the passage of time with a tally mark system scrawled onto that note we found, it’s still hard to keep it all straight. We’d forgotten to make a tally a few times, so our calendar isn’t as accurate as it should be.

If that’s why Damon chose that parameter, he doesn’t say. But I know he’s banking on me losing track of the days we spend here. Well, he’s going to be shocked when he loses and has to sit through all kinds of romantic movies and TV shows.

“It’s a deal,” I say with a nod.

“I knew it would be,” he replies.

Then, I hear the door to the master bedroom closet, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I keep the television on, returning to the late-night marathon of _Sabrina the Teenage Witch._

I lean back against the couch, pulling a red throw pillow close to my chest. I mostly focus on what’s happening in the main character’s life, but every so often, the movement of the blue light on the walls catches my eye.

 _It’s just the TV,_ I reassure myself. Only, the way the blue cast dances across the walls and floor doesn’t match the changes playing out on the screen. My intuition tells me that Damon and I are being spied on, but we’ve yet to see another human being in the neighborhood—and I reluctantly followed him the last time he left (mid-day—he’s very secretive about his midnight outings) to search through the other homes on our street.

Not a single soul was spotted—not even a squirrel or rabbit.

But it doesn’t _feel_ like a trick of the eyes and I can’t shake the ominous thought that something very weird is going on in Mystic Falls.

* * *

To cut down on our bickering over what to watch after we eat dinner, I suggest breaking out some of the board games I found in a random closet I had been trying to organize. At first, all I saw were mountains of old books, spines thick and large with strange lettering on them. There were stacks of them; each one just as voluminous as the last. If I had to guess, I’d say every single one is made up of at _least_ a thousand pages.

Yellowing, crinkled sheets of paper, the front covers dusty and adorned with colorful jewels and initials written in beautiful, cursive atop the very first page. The one I opened had the letters E.A.B. and S.L.B. written in the upper corner. I didn’t read any further, though. There was so much dust on the book that I sneezed and coughed, effectively ending whatever spark of curiosity I felt before it had time to grow.

I did, however, leave them on the middle shelf, just in case I got bored and needed something new to do. I liked reading, something I discovered on one of the nights I was too keyed up to go to bed. I enjoy it so much that I’ve almost finished the books that make up the small library in my bedroom.

And every time I go near the closet, my fingers itch, the urge to spend the rest of the day combing through the pages of the book I had opened before both overwhelming and creepy.

That’s also the main reason we played _Monopoly—_ I glance at the crappy, handwritten chart sitting beside me—the last three evenings. I, being too apprehensive to retrieve a box myself, decided to let Damon be in charge of picking the game. So, because he’s a complete asshole, he gets a thrill out of stealing money from the bank when he thinks I’m not looking.

“Ready to lose again, Bennett?” he asks, entering the dining room with the dreaded board game in his hands.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Nope—get a new game. I’m tired of your cheating—no one lands on Boardwalk and Park Place every time they play.”

“You’re such a sore loser,” he grumbles. And surprisingly, he doesn’t argue with me. He turns around and goes back to the closet.

When he returns, he slams _Clue_ onto the table, leaving me once more to get his nightly glass of bourbon. I place the board on the center of the table. Then, just so he can’t accuse me of peeking at the cards I set them aside until he comes back.

“That was easier than I thought,” I remark, handing him half of the cards to shuffle, along with a little pencil and a record sheet.

“What was easier than you thought?”

“Getting you to pick another game.”

“Monopoly was getting boring,” he states, writing his name on the bottom of his paper. “I also thought you’d stop accusing me of cheating if I ended up kicking your ass on a game of deduction.”

“That’s all?” I eye him skeptically. Damon looks tired like he hasn’t slept well either. He probably doesn’t have the energy to put up a fight.

“Yes, _mom._ That’s it—I’m not letting the cool kids pressure me. I saw the frying pan commercial—drugs are _bad._ ”

I don’t know how to respond to that. I’m not being nosy—I’m just expressing friendly concern. I have this innate feeling that I’m supposed to protect someone, and seeing as Damon is my only company, all my odd, unwarranted worry is put squarely on him.

When he sees my dumbfounded expression, his face softens. “Sorry… I’m just hangry.”

“We ate dinner forty minutes ago.”

“I know,” he doesn’t offer any further explanation, so I drop it. There’s no use in bombarding Damon with questions—if he wanted to tell me more, he would.

Besides, I’m not all that sure I want the whole picture anyway.

_~~X~~_

We play until the sky darkens and we have to turn on the light on the ceiling fan to see what is in front of us.

“Why don’t we pick this up again tomorrow?”

I frown at him. “Is this because I’m winning?”

“No,” he says, smirking. “I just need some fresh air. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Where are you going?”

“That’s for me to know and you to dot, dot, dot.” Damon quips, standing up and grabbing his leather jacket from the peg by the front door.

“I don’t care that much,” I tell him, knowing it doesn’t sound that way.

“I’ll come home if anything bad happens,” he assures me, coming back over. He leans on the table, faces now inches from mine. “I promise.”

Well, I don’t know how he’ll be alerted to this hypothetical danger, but I believe him. I’m also a little too distracted to consider the logistics because I’m caught up on the way my stomach flip-flopped when he said the word _“home.”_

“… You better,” I say finally, bristling at the obvious tension in the air.

Aside from the heavy onslaught of emotions, I’m also bothered by the feeling we are being observed again. I hadn’t gotten that sense in days and it suddenly came back with a vengeance when Damon mentioned leaving the house.

“I will—I don’t want to face your wrath, Bennett. You are a pain in the ass when your angry.”

“Am not!”

“Are, too.” With that, he backs away, heading for the door.

I stay right where I am for a few minutes, staring out the window idly, trying to tell myself that if someone else is really hanging around this tiny town with us, we would’ve run into them by now.

But, as logical as that sounds, it isn’t the least bit comforting.

So, I decide I need to stop allowing my imagination to run away from me, that I should take advantage of Damon’s absence and read in peace and quiet. It works for a bit, but my dark thoughts rear their ugly head again before my best—and only—friend gets back.

I’m curled up in bed, underneath my favorite blanket, reading a dog-eared copy of _Wuthering Heights_ (of which I only have two chapters to go), when I am startled by the sound of something falling off a shelf and crashing onto the floor.

I jump, losing my grip on the book. It slips out of my hands and ends up on the ground beside my bed, covers up, and current page lost amongst the others.

_Chill Bonnie—it’s probably the wind. Or maybe the house is settling._

I wish I could relax, but my fight-or-flight instinct has kicked in. I suppress my desire to run to my bedroom door, to lock it and barricade myself inside, maybe take up refuge in my walk-in closet while I wait out my fear, praying for the brief commotion to be caused by Damon carelessly knocking something over upon entering the house.

Only, it _can’t_ be him. If it was, he’d have called my name by now—probably have even barged in here unannounced, demanding that I entertain him until he feels like going to his own room.

_Crash!_

I flinch, shrinking against the upholstered bedframe, before gathering all my courage to get up and investigate. Taking several deep, calming breaths, I open the door, forging my way downstairs, head swiveling from left to right, body poised to attack if I encounter a threat.

The living room is perfectly empty, not a single thing out of place. Nothing is lying on the floor, the pictures are still mounted on the wall, the remote and tissue box is still on the coffee table. Nothing appears to be broken on the bulbous television or the wooden entertainment center it sits on.

Same thing with the kitchen—the pots and pans are still hanging above the island, there aren’t any broken plates on the floor, no cracked glasses or mugs to be found. All the appliances are plugged in but turned off—except for the fridge.

The game board and its pieces are exactly as I left them, something I check three times before I exit the dining room, turning the light back on and heading for the stairs. I grab the lone purple umbrella sitting in the rack just outside the archway before I go upstairs—just to be safe.

I check the bathroom first, taking a sweeping look around, opening the linen closet. Once I’m satisfied that only towels and toiletries are inside, I shut the closet door with my foot and walk to Damon’s room.

It’s clean—save for a pair of boots sitting on the floor and an unmade bed, the white-and-orange comforter pushed all the way back, exposing the soft, pastel orange sheets underneath. I take a small step inside, listening for that crashing sound, searching for anything that may have fallen.

“What are you doing?”

I jump again, frightened, dropping the umbrella and whirling around toward the sound of the voice.

Of course, I register the fact that it _is_ Damon before my eyes land on him—I’d know his voice anywhere, as he is the only person I have to talk with. Relief floods over me, but embarrassment follows on its heels.

Here I am, acting like an umbrella-wielding lunatic, when Damon emerges from the bathroom, tossing his coat on the foot of his bed.

He’s cool, calm, and collected.

And less tired, it seems. The exhaustion I noticed earlier is gone, a fresh, energized expression in its place—along with that stupid, shit-eating grin.

“Scared of something?” Damon presses when I don’t reply.

“I thought you were an intruder!” I exclaim, irritated. “What happened to letting your roommate know that you are home?”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “I thought surprising you would be funnier—and I was right.”

“It’s not!” I huff angrily.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” he retorts with a laugh.

“I’m going to walk away now,” I tell him, backing out of the room.

“And I’ll meet you in the living room—it’s my turn to pick the movie.”

“Oh joy,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.

“I know—this time, it won’t suck!”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” I call over my shoulder, as I enter the hall.

But at this second, I’m too happy to see Damon to actually form a legitimate opinion on anything.


	5. Little Miss Never Wrong

* * *

**~Chapter Five~**

* * *

_And live just the way we please  
We'll make ourselves a little home  
A garden and a fire  
Forget the shit we left behind  
And follow our desires_

_~Toadies, We Burned the City Down~_

* * *

_Place: 22 Broken Arrow Road  
Mystic Falls, Virginia  
Date: May 23rd, 1994 ~ Damon and Bonnie time._

* * *

The following morning, I wake up to find myself tangled in a pile of blankets, pillows, and Damon’s limbs. The TV is still on, though instead of the romantic comedy I forced Damon to sit through (he didn’t, though he did fire off a round of snarky comments before drifting to sleep) the night before, I’m met with a commercial for a block of cartoons.

My back aches and my right leg has fallen asleep underneath Damon’s arm. I try to remember how we ended up in this position—his head on my lap, my torso propped up against the sofa, the hardwood floor unforgiving despite the heap of pillows we arranged to combat it. It’s funny, in an ironic kind of way. Originally, Damon and I had opted to sprawl out on the couch but did this instead because we couldn’t agree on who got the extra cushion space.

He’s such a child when it comes to compromising.

I can’t help but smile at the memory, however, I get rid of it quickly when I nudge Damon on the shoulder—hard, so I don’t have to keep prodding him. “Damon, wake up! You’re crushing me!”

“Hm?” he mumbles, opening an eye.

“You’re ten times my size; you’re squishing me to death.”

“Then why are you _still_ nagging me? Shouldn’t you focus on… oh, I don’t know, _breathing?”_

I’m about to unleash an expletive-filled rant on him, and he must be able to tell because he suddenly has a jolt of energy, which he uses to sit up. I glare at him—it figures he wouldn’t be stiff after sleeping on the ground for eight hours.

He’s unflappable.

Or an alien… and I’m not sure I entirely believe in them. Though I will admit, Damon makes a pretty strong case in their favor—he does some pretty strange things.

The late-night walks, the way he drinks like a fish and manages to wake up without a hangover the next day, how he is so fast; not to mention stealthy.

But I know I don’t have a leg to stand on. Damon claims I do some pretty odd things myself, but those instances are coincidences. When you cook, there’s a chance something will burn, if you’re not careful. And I can reluctantly agree with him on that point—I’m somehow the world’s most dangerous woman in the kitchen. The candle incident that happened weeks ago… that was just us being in a new place, unaware of what was inside the house.

“So, what do you want to do today?” he asks, diverting my anger before I get the opportunity to voice it.

“I don’t know,” I fumble around for our makeshift calendar. We’ve gotten in the habit of having it nearby at all times to make note of any changes we see. Now, I find it on the edge of the coffee table. “We’re in week three, I think. Day two… does that make it a Monday or Tuesday?”

“We’ve been over this—we decided that a new week would start when we reached Sunday.”

“Yeah, well, _you_ forgot to check yesterday’s column.” I thrust the paper—which is growing more and more worn by the day—and stare at him with a haughty smirk.

I’ve been trying to copy his—right down to the subtle twitch he has when his lips quirk up on the left. My goal is to get him to realize how fucking annoying it is—but he remains unaffected.

The jerk.

“It’s still a Monday,” he snips, folding the paper and shoving it into the pocket of his jeans.

“Fine, it’s Monday.”

“I say we raid the CD shop on the corner of Spruce and Briarcliff.”

I think this over for a minute—music _would_ be nice. In the back of Damon’s closet, we came across a record player and a small CD player; a compact boombox with a cassette slot in the middle. We searched for disks of any kind to break up the monotony of _Baywatch_ playing in the background while we ate a meal, or played a game, or read books on the couch (I’ve opted to work on the selection in Damon’s room, hoping that it would keep my mind off the old, dusty books that are just down the hall).

Unsurprisingly, it has only worked when Damon supplied his opinion on whatever book I happened to be poring over.

Anyway, we even went into the attic, searching through old boxes of useless junk—old diaries that are locked, keys lost, weird necklaces, and a bin filled with different colored candles and a book about plants.

No CDs. No records.

Just cobwebs, spiders, furniture that appears to be broken, and if it doesn’t look that way, then it’s definitely seen better days. I almost tripped over the leg of a chair jutting out from beneath a white sheet, nearly crashing into a shelf of glass jars.

Damon, with his extremely agile reflexes, grabbed me before I made contact with the wall, and the buzzing electricity that ran up my arm took my breath away. An even bigger shock than the very first time it happened because I’d actually adapted to it—Damon and I frequently ended up touching one another, by accident, and out of instinct sometimes.

It comes with the territory of being unlikely roommates. And, you know, being the only two people in town.

It was probably just an adrenaline rush—I _did_ almost impale myself on a rickety slab of wood, after all, but something about the way he looked at me afterward, how we just stood there for a while, locked in an awkward embrace, told me that there was more to it than that.

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Good, because I was going to drag you along anyway.”

“I’m walking away from you now,” I say, standing up and stretching my arms over my head.

I’m halfway upstairs when he says, “I’m making pancakes for breakfast.”

I groan internally. While Damon has demonstrated the know-how to make other breakfast foods, pancakes are his go-to. I’ve had all different flavors: blueberry, chocolate chip, cinnamon. And while I liked them all, I think he doubled down on it because of a remark I made when I walked into the kitchen, though I can’t recall the exact day I said it.

_“Oh, look, you made pancakes… again. Did you have a traumatic experience with French toast or something?”_

That evening, he used the leftover batter to make muffins—two batches of them. That man is the Mary Poppins of pancakes.

So, this time, I just stick my tongue out at him, hurrying to my bedroom before he reacts—he’ll just have to save the snark for when I’m done with my morning routine.

_~~X~~_

After my shower, I am in my bedroom, sifting through my closet, when I come across the shirt I wore to bed our first night here. The one from a comet festival. When my fingertips brush the fabric, I don’t like the nagging suspicion that takes over me.

For a brief moment, when I decided to make use of the washer and dryer across from the bathroom. I came across it when I grabbed a pile of clothes from the hamper. This was after we found out the current year, and I was thoroughly confused by the date printed on it.

Because 2009 is about fourteen years from now.

And—for obvious reasons—that information didn’t sit well with me. I tossed the offending shirt back into the hamper and haven’t thought about it again until now.

Which sucks—I wrack my brain, thinking I must’ve put it back without realizing it, but that’s crazy. If seeing it now gives me the creeps, then I definitely would’ve remembered hanging it up.

The only plausible explanation—that Damon did laundry for both of us and kindly decided to go the extra mile and put it in the closet—isn’t really plausible at all.

Damon and I have an agreement about household responsibilities: he cooks, I do laundry.

This has been a thing since he ruined the only matching bra and underwear set I had when he threw them in the washing machine with his jeans. And this was upsetting—not because I _care_ about that sort of thing, but because, when I saw them, I got this very random thought that I had no idea what to do with.

Maybe thought is the wrong way to put it. It was more like advice, I suppose. And the voice of whoever dispensed it sounded eerily familiar:

 _“Ugh, you guys can’t be_ that _hopeless. You two need to own underwear that doesn’t look like you bought it in the Juniors section of Walmart. You never know when you’ll run into a hot guy.”_

Of course, because the voice isn’t mine, I don’t recognize it.

I yank the t-shirt from its hanger, ball it up, and throw it in the back of my closet.

I throw on some clothes and go back downstairs. And I’m starting to regret my lack of enthusiasm for Damon’s pancakes—the familiar, comforting smell wafts into the foyer, and thoughts about the laundry mix-up fade away. They are so far gone, in fact, that I’m able to lock it up in the deep recesses of my consciousness and throw away the key.

Like it never even happened.

“Just in time, Bon Bon. I just made our plates.”

Damon is standing in front of the kitchen table, two stacks of pancakes at each place setting. However, the one at my spot has double the number of the one at his.

I look from him to our food, and back at him again. “That’s a lot of pancakes. Too many.”

“I know how you hate sharing,” Damon tells me, taking the dishtowel off of his shoulder, tossing it onto the island. “So, I decided to give you the most.”

“How _sweet_ of you,” I give him a tight smile, sitting down on my chair.

He shrugs, gazing at me with fake humility before he transfers his stare to the tiled floor. And then, when he speaks, the bashfulness in his tone is over-the-top. “Aw, Bon Bon. How _kind_ of you to say that, but that’s just me. A gentleman.”

_“The gentlest.”_

“Only when the situation calls for it, though.”

“You sound like an ass,” I comment, stabbing my first pancake with more anger than I really feel.

“And you sound sanctimonious,” he fires back, sticking his tongue out in what I’m assuming is supposed to be a (very poor) imitation of me.

I roll my eyes. “You give yourself way too much credit.”

“Not true,” he says with a pout. I try not to look in his eyes for too long, the emotional depth in them is something that I get distracted by far too often. “I’m pretty fucking amazing.”

“Arrogant,” I correct.

“Awesome.”

“Egotistical.”

“Hot.”

“Overrated.”

“Mysterious.”

“If you call being predictable mysterious, maybe.”

“You need to learn how to loosen up.”

“Oh, and how do you suppose I do that?”

“Well, since you asked so _nicely,_ I’m happy to show you.”

“This isn’t going to be fun, is it?”

“Oh, au contraire my little Bon Bon—I’m going to have _loads_ of fun.”

* * *

The walk to the record shop is a nice one, the weather much warmer than it was before. If you had asked me to guess the time of year based upon how it felt outside when I first got here, I’d guesstimate that it was late March, maybe early April, but ever since I laid eyes on that newspaper, it’s been sunnier.

We pass the grocery store, a tiny drug store, a restaurant that looks like it hasn’t been open in a long while, and a bar with a wooden sign on the front, _The Mystic Grille_ painted on it in large, block lettering.

I stop and stare into the window. I can see the bar and the shelves of bottles and glasses behind it, tall stools line the counter, and tables with chairs on top of them are scattered throughout the room. If I crane my neck a little, I see a pool table in the corner and a large dartboard on the wall adjacent to it. The little note on the glass is hand-written, to the point…

_Sorry, we’re closed. Come back soon._

“That’s kind of spooky, don’t you think?” I tap the window.

Damon, who had to double-back when he noticed I wasn’t beside him anymore, takes a glance inside The Grille, as the words printed on the door so nicely shortened it. “It’s not any creepier than any other abandoned store around here. You didn’t think _that_ place was all that strange,” he nods his head toward the fast-food place on the corner of the strip mall.

“It didn’t have a note like this one,” I argue, eyebrows raised in a _ha, ha, I know what I’m saying_ kind of way.

Damon gives me the most exaggerated look of agitation I’ve seen on him yet. “I didn’t say it was _normal;_ I said it was the same as every other building we’ve seen.”

“Well, I don’t have a good feeling about the place—we shouldn’t go in there.”

“I already have.”

“Those trips you take in the middle of the night are _bourbon runs?”_ I exclaim though I don’t know why I sound so shocked—that is exactly the kind of thing Damon would do. And it’s not as if I should be so… _hurt_ by it—we are both adults; we can do whatever we want.

And he always comes home.

But I’m still worried that something might go belly-up when he’s out.

That’s the main issue I have with it, as alcohol doesn’t seem like a necessity, but then there’s that little part of me that wonders if he hasn’t asked me to go because he thinks I’m too lame to have real fun.

It’s irrational—and probably a bit hypocritical—because there have been times when I wanted to lock him out of the house. Peace and Damon can’t co-exist. It’s to be expected that we’d need a break from one another once in a while, but I’ve grown way too fond of him to not care if he left and never came back.

“Not all the time—I’ve stopped in here once or twice. It’s on the way to the hospital.”

 _That’s not what I was anticipating…_ “Why do you need to go to the hospital? Are you okay?”

“Is that you saying you care?”

“No,” I say quickly, tilting my chin up in defiance.

He shrugs as if my response meant nothing to him one way or the other. “Fine… I guess you don’t really want to know why, then.”

Damon begins to walk away, hands tucked inside the pockets of his black jeans.

“Wait,” I call after him, jogging to catch up. “I _do_ care, okay? I just don’t want you to hold it over my head.”

“Bonster, I’m hurt,” he sounds like an old woman clutching her pearls. “Do you really think I’m the kind of man that would stoop to blackmail?”

I shoot him a dirty look.

“… I was getting medical supplies—band-aids and antibiotics. You know, in case of that emergency you’re always bitching about. You know, the one that _never actually happens.”_

 _Oh._ That’s a reasonable explanation. I feel embarrassed by my strong reaction now. “Right… sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he pats my head condescendingly. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it up to me.”

“Probably not,” I quip, moving past him and walking straight into the music store.

The focal point of the store’s layout is the rows upon rows of CDs in the center of the room. I choose to go down the first aisle—the one with a huge banner signaling that albums by artists A through E could be found here.

I hear the bell on the door ring, and I know without looking that Damon has come inside. Who else would it be? So, I continue thumbing through the CDs until the sound of static booms through the speaker system.

I’m startled, and I nearly drop the case I’d been examining. Across the room, I watch as Damon fiddles with the CD player located behind the cash register. A tune with an upbeat, rock ‘n roll tempo blares overhead.

“Damon, you shouldn’t be touching all of this stuff. What if something breaks?”

“Then I’ll just use one of those,” he points to the display of radios, and stereos behind me. Damon regards me with an amused expression, eyes glittering mischievously. “Have some fun, Bon Bon—it won’t kill you.”

“It’s not the fun I’m worried about,” I remind him sternly.

“So? There’s no point in being so paranoid and uptight—it’s just me and you here—” he holds his arms up, stretching them out as if he has picked up the entire universe and dropped it at my feet. “Embrace it.”

He grabs me by the hands and pulls me close. “You know that’s a loaded statement.”

“Yeah, but if you keep stressing the fuck out over every little noise, you’ll die of a heart attack before whatever monster you’ve dreamt about comes and gets you.”

The validity of his words isn’t lost on me, but how did he know about my strange dreams?

“You talk in your sleep,” he says for the billionth time before I can ask. “Oh, you also snore. And drool.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Okay…” he pauses very deliberately. “But you do.”

“Shut up,” I snap.

“Only if you dance with me,” he presses, and it’s like he knows he’s won before I officially throw in the towel.

“Fine,” I grumble. “I’m only going to humor you because I’d do just about anything to shut you up.”

He smirks. “Remind me to up the ante the next time we negotiate.”

“I’m pretty sure this is extortion.”

“Or fate… this song was made for you,” he puts his finger to my lips, urging me to listen to the song’s lyrics. “The Spin Doctors— _Little Miss Never Wrong.”_

 _“Ha, ha, ha—_ how clever of you… not.”

Instead of trying to provoke me, he wraps his arms around my waist. We sway back and forth for a few beats, before he twirls me under his arm, dipping me so I’m staring straight up at the ceiling.

At some point (and I’m not entirely sure when my mood changed, resistance melting off of me), I let go, and I find myself doing all types of tricks,m. Cartwheels, spins, the moonwalk. And it’s so _fun,_ almost freeing in a way—like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

It becomes clear, while Damon is light on his feet, that I’m the better dancer. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Bon.”

That sounds very much like a double entendre, but I go right by it and answer him honestly. “Neither did I.”

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“Only because I can’t remember anything.”

He grins at me. “I can’t argue with that.”

The song comes to a close, the second track blending into the outro seamlessly. _Smells Like Teen Spirit_ by Nirvana. Instead of the fancy footwork, I watch Damon as he plays the air guitar.

Instead of being annoyed by his blasé attitude, I actually find it endearing. 

_~~X~~_

After grabbing a few CDs to bring home with me, I perch myself atop one of the large speakers cattycorner to where Damon is dancing and singing along with the song in perfect timing. He doesn’t even miss a lyric—I’ve been reading the insert inside the album as it plays.

I’ve got to give him credit because I would’ve bungled every line of the song if I were just going off what I heard.

About an hour later, Damon is lying on the floor directly beside where I’m sitting.

He proclaimed that he is now exhausted and “collapsed” onto the floor, despite my warning about us having tracked in dirt and germs from the outside. But when he snorted at me derisively, telling me to take a good look around, I saw that everything is practically brand-new.

None of the CD cases look like they’ve been touched by anyone besides Damon and me—there aren’t any smudges or fingerprints marring the plastic. The parts of the floor that are tiled are spotless; freshly buffed, like no one has walked on them since before they finished stocking the shelves. And the portion that is carpeted rivals the fluffiness of the one that covers the upstairs hallway at home.

Come to think of it, even the sidewalks and roads are perfect, the paint marking of crosswalks bright, the pavement free of cracks or potholes. Every flower bed around town is perfect, even though there is no one around that’s tending to them. The grassy areas (yards, the park, and the cemetery) never seem to grow longer or brown.

“Damon?”

“Yes?” he tilts his head upward.

“This is… nice.”

“I was right.”

I slide off the speaker, tucking my legs under me, as I sink to the ground. I lean over Damon, glaring at his upside-down face. “The appropriate response would be, _‘thank you, Bonnie.’”_

“I don’t do ‘appropriate,’ Bennett. We’ve been stuck together for weeks and you haven’t figured that out yet?”

“It’s impossible not to,” I tell him, poking him in the ribs. “You’re just lucky you can cook.”

“Thank God for small miracles.”

“Right?”

“… Bennett?”

“Yes?”

“… you haven’t reached your fun limit, have you?”

“Hey! I find that offensive—I spent a total of eight songs dancing with you!”

“Okay,” he begins, propping himself up so our noses are touching. “Head bobbing isn’t the same as dancing and I just wanted to know if you wanted to take a walk with me after dinner.”

“To the hospital?” I wrinkle my nose. That doesn’t sound entertaining at all. “I don’t want to fight over whether or not we should steal bedpans.”

“There’s several labs' worth of useful stuff and you think I’d go for a _bedpan?_ Don’t answer that—and no, somewhere else.”

I regard him skeptically. “Where?”

“It’s a secret,” he says devilishly.

I pretend to give it a moment of consideration. “Hm… no.”

“You’ll have fun. And I’ll bring the good bourbon with us, I’ll even _share it.”_ He bats his eyelashes at me, in the way that I’m sure has made many girls swoon.

Not me—Damon and surprises? They shouldn’t be used in the same sentence. “You can do better than that.”

“… Fine, will you _please_ accompany me on a late-night stroll, Bon Bon?”

“That depends… what are you making for dinner?”

“Not pancakes,” Damon assures me. “I was thinking tacos.”

“Well, I’m in then—you used the magic word.”

“Please?”

“No,” I say with a chuckle. “Tacos.”


	6. Gasoline Nightmare

* * *

**~Chapter Six~**

* * *

_You can't wake up, this is not a dream  
You're part of a machine, you are not a human being  
With your face all made up, living on a screen  
Low on self-esteem, so you run on gasoline_

_~Halsey, Gasoline~_

* * *

The sun is setting when Damon and I exit the house, the sky several different hues of pink and blue. The lampposts have switched on, illuminating the sidewalk. It’s cooler now, the temperature dipping low enough for me to need a sweater.

“It’s not that cold,” Damon says, stepping off the porch. “It feels nice.”

“Maybe to you,” I snip, throwing a look at the front door. I’m seriously thinking about going back inside to swap my shorts for pants.

But Damon is already halfway down the driveway, having dismissed my claim entirely. So, I hurry over to him, turning to face him once I get a few steps ahead. “You are so annoying!”

“Chill out, Judgy. I wasn’t ditching you; I knew you’d catch up… eventually.”

I’m still walking backward, not wanting to let him have the last laugh by falling in line beside him. I like to glare at him disapprovingly when he irritates me. Not that he really feels I’m all that intimidating. I think it has to do with my height—or rather, my lack thereof. Damon insists that it’s because I’m cute when I’m angry, but I know he says that because it enrages me more.

“Are you going to tell me where you’re taking me yet?”

“No,” he scoffs. “That would be anticlimactic.”

“Why does everything have to be a movie… why is everything such a big, grand deal?”

He ponders this, tapping his finger against his lips. “Mostly because the _actual_ movies you make me watch are horrible.”

 _“The Bodyguard_ is _not_ a bad film—it’s a great story.”

“Yeah… and that’s why I think you have bad taste.”

“I resent that statement, especially since _your_ pick was _Interview with a Vampire.”_

He stares at me for a moment, before shaking his head, as if there is a joke buried in my statement that I’m just not getting. “I thought it was funny.”

“It wasn’t a comedy.”

“Eh,” he says, still bemused. “Things can be funny without meaning to be.”

“… you’re such a weirdo,” I tell him, slowing my pace so I can bump him in the shoulder with my own.

“I’m taking that as a compliment.”

“When _don’t_ you take everything, I say as a compliment?”

“Very rarely,” he concedes, taking me over to a winding path surrounded by nothing but trees.

He holds his hand out, and I grab it without thinking. Maybe there’s something to Damon’s logic, a method to his madness, so to speak. Still, I can’t quite shake my nervousness… can’t wrap my head around how Damon is so fearless about everything…

And, yet I allow him to pull me along, keeping my eyes trained on the ground. The last thing I want to do is fall face-first in the dirt because I missed some obstacles in my way. Damon, of course, navigates the terrain as if it’s a completely flat surface.

We aren’t trudging through the darkness for long. About five minutes later, we break into a clearing, a wrought iron fence off in the distance, separating us from whatever is behind it. On our left, there is yet another walkway, this one on an incline—and a steep one at that. The trail climbs upward, the change in elevation so sharp that I get tired just _thinking_ about the stamina it would take to reach the top.

“Calm down, we aren’t going up that way.”

“Good,” I say, trying to mask the relief I feel. “Not that I couldn’t do it…”

Damon scoffs, uncapping the bottle of bourbon and tossing it back like he’s drinking water after an intense workout. “Go on, tell me more about things you think you’re good at… enough of this stuff and you might get me to believe you’re a world-class chef.”

“So,” I begin. “Is this it?”

I take a step back and soak everything in. At first glance, there doesn’t appear to be anything particularly _special_ about this field. Long grass that brushes against my calves, wildflowers scattered in little clusters all over the ground, a long stream of moonlight bursting through the little wisps of cloud cover. It’s a sight to behold, for sure, but as I stand here, I’m caught by the churning of pull distress it brings on. My palms get clammy, my forehead breaking out in a cold sweat. My breathing becomes heavier and my head aches as I try to make sense of it all—

Damon grabs my hand. “This place gave me the creeps, too.” His voice is low, almost like he doesn’t want me to hear him. “But my brother and I used to come here all the time when we were younger.”

I take the bourbon when Damon holds it out, bringing the lip of the bottle to my mouth with my free hand. It sloshes a bit, and some of it dribbles down my chin because I can’t stop shaking. After my first sip, I take two more, hoping that I’ll get used to the burning sensation in my throat.

“How do you remember that? Honestly. I want a bullshit-free answer.”

“I don’t know,” and when he sees the pointed look on my face, he says, “no bullshit. I woke up in the boarding house—which is up there—” he nods toward the giant hill. “And when I went into the dining room, I ran into that horrible painting of my family… there was even a placard underneath of it. How fucking pretentious is that?”

“Pretty obnoxious,” I concur, taking another small sip before passing the bourbon back to Damon.

“And I didn’t need to read it; I just _knew._ I saw me and my little brother sitting on our parent’s laps… we were toddlers… and I got this picture of him and I growing up, like a bad movie montage, except it’s missing something… like I couldn’t remember everything… still can’t, but I’ve got the gist of it all.”

I sign in frustration. “That’s better than what I’ve got. It’s like there’s a roadblock in my mind. Like, I know I should know certain things, I just can’t figure out what they are. I really am crazy!”

My hand slips out of his and I sink to the ground, knees burrowing into the dirt.

“No crazier than me,” he says, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know why we’re here, or why we’re alone, but I’m sure there’s a reason for it.”

“Why are you being so… understanding?”

He waves the bourbon. “This stuff does wonders to your inhibitions.”

I don’t like how disappointed his reply makes me feel. “You’re drunk… got it.”

“That just means I’m not as worried about impressing you,” he explains, words flowing out of his mouth like a waterfall.

“You want to impress me?” I ask, peering up at him hopefully. I’m pretty sure the rare instance of vulnerability on both our parts has a lot to do with the mostly empty bottle of Woodford Reserve, but I’m too buzzed to act otherwise.

“Sometimes,” he admits, meeting my gaze straight-on. “I can’t help but feel like I’ve got something to prove—like I did something wrong and need to make up for it.”

“Well, you’re an ass, but you’re not a _bad_ person… I think there’s a distinction between the two.”

“You’re cute when you try to use big words when you’re drunk,” he teases.

But I don’t back down—the hazier my head gets, the more brazen I become. “That’s annoying, but you could do much worse than make fun of me.”

“I have,” he says ruefully, but he doesn’t elaborate.

“Nobody’s perfect.” Though, I’m not really sure what he’s trying to tell me. It sounds like there might be some other message I’m not noticing.

“I don’t think many people would do some of the things I’ve done. The thing is, I know that I can’t recall the half of it—I’ve probably done even worse than I think I have.”

“So… don’t do those kinds of things anymore,” I say.

“It’s not that simple,” he protests. “How can I make up for everything if I don’t have the full story?”

I shrug. “I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out together.”

“We’ll need a lot more bourbon, then.”

* * *

The nightmares are getting worse.

And I’m worried that I might be losing my mind over them.

But dreams are just that—dreams. They aren’t real and they could be influenced by all kinds of different factors: the foods you eat before going to bed, a TV show you watched, a book you read, or something that happened during your day.

I have no reason to be this shaken up by them. Once my eyes shoot open, and I feel the silken sheets underneath my fingertips and collection of throw blankets balled up at my feet, my breathing begins to slow. I take stock of my body, drenched in sweat stemming from a highly irritating combination of overheated and freezing—it feels almost like I have a fever with no other symptoms of illness.

And I always have to peel my shirt off of my torso and brush my hair off of my face, where it clings to my cheekbones and forehead, kept in place by the clamminess of my skin.

Usually, I can get away with changing my clothes, turning the ceiling fan on, stripping the case from my pillow, and throwing all but one blanket on the floor.

Tonight, however, I’m paralyzed with… not just fear, but a strong sense of disorientation. I’m lying in what feels like a puddle of perspiration, back pressed against the mattress, legs bent at an uncomfortable angle, a fleece blanket caught on my ankle.

My pulse beats frantically, throbbing in my wrists and neck, heart thumping so fast I’m actually afraid it might explode. My breathing is shallow, and it’s like it’s doing absolutely nothing. I feel like I’m slowly suffocating.

Everything comes in flashes.

_I love you, Bonnie. Stay strong._

Warmth. Comfort. A hug from the woman in the picture frame. A feeling of relief I’m desperate to hang on to, ripped away from me, leaving me all alone.

_Blood._

The thick, coppery taste filling my mouth, dripping down my chin as it pours from my nose, staining my fingers scarlet red, drying on my skin, leaving me sticky and weak.

_Agony._

As I clutch at random, shadowy silhouettes in front of me. The rough fabric of denim, skin, leather…

_Screams. Tears. Crushing sorrow._

Some girl yelling Damon’s name over and over again, voice tinged with betrayal and grief. Over and over again his name echoes in my ears. It makes me feel things I don’t know the name of. Possessive and guilty, as if I’m doing something horrible to my only friend… and this disembodied voice…

_Do you think it will hurt?_

_I don’t kn—_

The nightmare always ends there, and I feel like I’m falling, slamming into the bed at breakneck speed. Like I’m not bound to the Earth by gravity; until the very moment, I am, forced downward before I can fully appreciate the lack of pain.

The total absence of fear.

Only, tonight, my dream felt far more intense than it typically does. Nothing changed, I still felt and heard the same things, but they were stronger this time. More pronounced, the picture the tiniest bit clearer.

Usually, I can only see darkness, can only differentiate between where one shadow stops and the other begins. Now, they seem to be taking on more of a shape, looking more like people instead of floating spirits.

Floating spirits… what am I thinking?

_Maybe I should cut back on the sugary snacks before bedtime…_

I turn on the light, peeling my pants off of my body and kicking them aside. it is the same thing with my shirt.

I’ve done this little song and dance enough to do these tasks robotically like it’s just a normal part of my nightly routine. Grab clean clothes from the drawer, run the brush through my hair before I get dressed…

But I freeze when I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. I’m not just sweating; I’m _bleeding._

A streak of ruby-red cascading down my face, dripping onto my chest. I cast my eyes to the floor, finding the shirt I’d worn to bed completely covered in it.

My hands are coated in it and I’m getting more terrified by the second. Those things I felt in my dream… the pain… it’s real. Maybe not _all_ of it—the scene that plays out doesn’t even make sense—but the blood, the metallic taste, the way I choke on it, drown in it before everything disappears, and somehow gets worse simultaneously.

I’m in a fugue state as I make my way over to the door. The logical voice in my head is telling me to take stock of the damage. What, if anything, hurts? Did I hit my head while I was sleeping? Did I scratch myself? Is this a sign of a serious health condition?

But I ignore it.

My only concern is cleaning myself up. Damon can’t see the mess I’ve made. He’ll make fun of me and I’ll never get him to stop. Or worse, he’ll be _worried._ He’d have every right to feel that way, but the idea makes me uncomfortable. It’s making my head hurt.

As soon as my fingertips close around the brass doorknob, I’m pushed backward, stumbling as I try to stay on my feet, shocked by the sudden force of the door swinging open.

Damon stands in front of me, in a t-shirt and black sweatpants, taking in his surroundings.

I suddenly feel even sillier for thinking he’d react frantically because the words that come out of his mouth are anything but.

“What the fuck happened in here?”

“I got a papercut.”

“It looks like you tried to recreate the prom scene from _Carrie!”_ Okay, he sounds mildly shocked now.

 _Good._ “I didn’t get to that part in the book yet.”

“It’s a good thing I made you watch the movie first,” he comments, peering around my shoulder. “I can’t say the same for your bedroom, though…”

“I’ll clean it up.”

“No, no you will not.” He states it so matter-of-factly that I don’t know what to say at first.

Damon—the man who complains about the chore chart I made without lifting a finger to help—telling me that I won’t clean up a mess that is of my doing is ridiculous.

I scoff, momentarily forgetting the way my nose is still dripping like a faucet. “And if I don’t, who will?”

“Me.”

“You?”

“Um, _yeah._ You’ve somehow managed to get a papercut _in your nose._ I can’t let someone who gets into a fistfight with a tissue box use bleach. That would be irresponsible of me.”

“I don’t appreciate the obvious sarcasm.”

“If only that was the most important statement made tonight…”

I pause, chewing on the inside of my cheek, “… you aren’t scared I’m dying?”

“You aren’t dying,” he says confidently.

“And how do you know that? Stealing a stethoscope from the hospital doesn’t make you a doctor, _sweetheart_.”

“I wouldn’t let you die,” he insists.

I fall silent. I believe him.

If I _were_ in any danger, I’d probably be dead already. And I have this pain in my stomach that makes me think that this isn’t the first time Damon has seen me with a major nosebleed.

Wracking my brain, I go over the past few weeks. I’m sure it happened before; I just can’t come up with the exact day an event like this occurred.

“Here, let me help you to the bathroom.”

I look from Damon to the blood smeared across my body, turning my head to survey the horror movie scene behind me. Even the change of clothes I picked out and set aside are stained red.

Okay, so this is just as embarrassing as I predicted it would be. Not for the reasons I thought, though. It has just dawned on me that I am half-naked, and Damon is right _there,_ ignoring that particular fact.

I wrap my arms around my body, cheeks flushing. The camisole I wore underneath my white t-shirt left me with some modesty, but not much.

 _“Great,”_ I mutter under my breath. _This night just keeps on giving gifts I do not want to take._

Damon holds his hands up in a sign of surrender. “I’m calling a truce. For the next two hours, I will do my very best not to be a _complete_ asshole.”

“I like that loophole you gave yourself,” I crack a smile.

He shrugs. “Sometimes I can’t help myself.”

“I know.”

Without another word, he scoops me up and carries me into the bathroom, refusing to let me go until he is sure my knees wouldn’t buckle.

I see that there is now a Bonnie-sized splotch on his shirt.

“It’s a good thing you do the laundry,” he remarks, body halfway out the door.

“Lucky me,” I roll my eyes as I turn the water on.

He smirks and I drop my gaze, trying to suppress the feeling of comfort it brings me.

It’s normal. Sure, nothing may actually _be_ normal, but Damon is still himself.

Stepping under the spray of hot water loosens my muscles, calms me down. I look straight ahead at first; at the white tiled wall, wishing that I could distract myself from the little glimpses of the dream that lingers in my consciousness.

My eyes slide downward, landing on the red-tinged water pooling around my ankles, mesmerized by how it doesn’t run clear, how it swirls around the drain. It’s a river of blood, flowing off me, and I wonder if it will ever come to an end.

I get my answer a few moments later.

The water slowly gets lighter and lighter in color until it runs clear, the temperature gradually going from hot to lukewarm to cool. A chill runs down my spine as I turn the faucet off, rushing to wrap myself in my trusty embroidered bath towel.

I sink to the floor, suddenly very tired. Exhausted. My limbs ache, my head hurts, and I can hear the steady _thump_ of my heartbeat in my ears.

I feel like I’ve been run over by a semi-truck.

When the fog on the mirror begins to fade, I push myself upward, legs shaking as I try to stay upright. I can hear Damon puttering around in the kitchen, moving pots and pans, intermittently running the sink, and the beeping of the microwave.

Using the bathroom fixtures—the towel rack and the edge of the counter—I inch toward the door. I don’t want Damon to have to stop whatever he’s doing to check on me. My pride has already been damaged enough for one night.

But I can’t even have that.

Damon opens the door, appraising me. I can feel his eyes travel from my toes to the top of my head. I avert my gaze, unable to withstand his scrutiny. How crazy do I look? Arms bent; legs wobbly, desperate to regain balance as I cling feebly to the porcelain countertop.

_Pathetic._

I risk a glance in his direction.

He’s shaking his head, closing the space between us before I can inform him that I don’t need his assistance. He places something very warm on my shoulders—his gray flannel—and I slide my arms into the sleeves. It’s one of his favorite shirts and it always smells like fabric softener and _Damon._ He wears it so often that it ends up in the laundry every single time I do it.

“I put it in the dryer for a few minutes,” he explains. “Figured you’d be cold.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly. I make him step outside so I can button the shirt and meet him in the hallway. He escorts me to my bedroom, looping an arm around my waist, hand clutching mine firmly.

I look at him in confusion as I walk to the middle of the room. If I hadn’t been the cause of it, I would never be able to tell that it looked like a crime scene not that long ago. The hardwood floor has been scrubbed clean, the ruined clothes are nowhere to be seen, and the bloody fingerprints I left in my wake have been washed away. My bed has also been remade with fresh blankets and sheets.

Sure, the scent of bleach hangs heavy in the air, but I’d take it over the alternative.

“I don’t like cleaning, that doesn’t mean I _can’t_ clean,” he says simply.

I nod slowly. “Noted.”

_~~X~~_

Damon is full of surprises tonight.

He’s made me soup and has insisted on staying by my side until I finish the entire bowl.

“It’ll make you grow up big and strong,” he teases. “You could use some help in the height department.”

I shoot him a withering look, begrudgingly spooning some into my mouth.

It’s tomato soup. Usually, I’d prefer to dip my grilled cheese sandwich into it, rather than eat it plain, but it tastes different tonight.

“You changed the recipe,” I accuse.

“Only a little bit,” he holds his thumb and pointer finger up to demonstrate how little the difference matters.

“What did you do to it?”

“Nothing—I just added an ingredient.”

“Which is?”

He grins deviously. “Can’t tell you. It’s a Salvatore family secret.”

“Are you poisoning me?” I wave the spoon in his direction.

He rolls his eyes. “I thought about it, but then I said to myself, _“Damon if you kill Bonnie… who’s going to complain about everything you do?’_ So, I decided to be nice and make you something my mom made me when I got sick—it’s supposed to _help._ Though, the kind of help you need probably requires a straight jacket and a padded room.”

“That’s not reassuring,” I say.

“Well not _yet,”_ he intones, watching me with amusement. “You interrupted me— _again._ I was going to say that doing morally questionable things would be way less fun if you weren’t around.”

“And why is that?”

“Because,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “What’s the point in doing anything if there’s no one to disagree with me? Who’s going to make things interesting?”

“Is that your way of saying you like having me around?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he laughs as my spoon clinks against the ceramic bowl. Casting my eyes downward, I see that there isn’t any soup left. I hadn’t even realized I had been eating it as Damon and I conversed. Though, I will say that I _do_ feel much better.

Maybe that’s because Damon has this way of distracting me from my worries. Maybe it _was_ the soup. Either way, I’m rejuvenated. It’s almost like nothing happened in the first place. The fatigue I experienced due to the blood loss has disappeared, my muscles don’t ache, and I actually feel as though I could run a marathon.

“It’s my way of saying that you’re an okay drinking buddy,” he concedes with a smirk.

I purse my lips. “Got it—you think I’m amazing.”

“If by amazing, you mean amazingly irritating, then yes—you are the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”

“I only heard the last part.”

“And _I’m_ the arrogant one?”

“I might reevaluate that determination for a small fee…”

“Why do I get the feeling I don’t want to pay this fee?”

I smile at him. “I don’t know… re-watching _The Bodyguard_ isn’t torture.”

“It’s worse,” he whines, getting up and clearing the table. I expect him to complain even more as he places the dishes in the sink, but when he turns around—still pouting—he says, “fine… go put it on before I come to my senses.”

I’m surprised to find that I hop to my feet with ease and even more puzzled when Damon doesn’t rush to my side to help me—he’d been so adamant about doing so upstairs that it’s weird to see him so relaxed now.

I try to push the bewilderment away, however, because something in the back of my mind tells me that stranger things have happened

* * *

_Place: Mystic Fall’s Grocery Store  
Date: June 3rd, 1994 ~ Damon and Bonnie time_

* * *

Mystic Falls is in a constant state of sunshine.

The weather is always perfect. The sky bright blue, with only a few wispy clouds to be seen. The grass a lush green despite the absence of rain.

It’s a tad bit unsettling. Today even more so than usual.

I have this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. The routine Damon and I have fallen into is second nature now—we are almost always together, aside from the time Damon still spends roaming the night, ransacking medical supplies from the tiny hospital.

I tell myself I’m agitated because we are very rarely apart. And sure, once a week we have an argument that leaves one of us walking away to get some space, but we always come back home.

It feels worse today, however, as we move up and down the aisles, bickering as we go over our shopping list for what seems like the billionth time. I know most of the anger is on my part. I’m on edge and my paranoia has grown. I long for the days when it felt like we were only being watched; when I woke up this morning, I got the sense that someone (or some _thing)_ was breathing down my neck.

So close that it could reach out and _touch me…_

Damon doesn’t quite get it—he proclaimed I just had PMS and threw a box of tampons into our shopping cart.

“We still need strawberries, milk, eggs… and candles,” I pull a small, thick, white candle from the shelf beside me.

Damon peers at me, one side of his mouth quirked up. “I know it’s been a while, but have you forgotten that you’re a pyromaniac that sets things on fire without meaning to?”

“I’m getting the candle,” I deadpan, grabbing ahold of the cart, keeping it in its place.

“Bad idea,” he mutters, yanking the cart from my grasp and steering it to the end of the aisle.

“I’m not a pyromaniac!” I call after him, watching as he goes off in search of the strawberries.

I intend to follow Damon, but for a moment, I can’t go anywhere.

My feet are rooted to the ground. No matter how I bend my legs or how forcefully I try to raise them, they will not budge. I’m seized by panic, desperate to propel myself in any direction, as I try to shake the sensation of hot breath on my skin.

As I make another attempt at freeing myself, I’m released by whatever was holding me. I tumble to the floor, knees, and palms smacking into the white linoleum. I quickly scramble to my feet, rushing to where Damon has parked our cart—the frozen foods section.

As I approach him, I gather myself, hoping that the weirdness of the minutes past went unnoticed.

“Are you trying to ditch me?” I sound breathless.

“Was it that obvious?”

 _Ouch. That stings._ “… I don’t know.”

I probably shouldn’t take his jab personally (it’s not like I haven’t been snappy with him) but I can’t help it. It hurts. I don’t act like it, though. Giving him the satisfaction of knowing he got to me will only dampen my mood further.

“Milk,” I remind him, taking a pair of sunglasses from a nearby display, examining my reflection in the mirror, as Damon passes me, I hold out a pair for him, hoping he’ll see it as an olive branch of sorts.

“Eggs,” he says, putting the glasses on his face.

I grab them from the fridge and hand them off to him.

We round the corner silently, both of us too proud to admit we pushed our bickering a little too far in the past couple of hours. I’m more than ready for our excursion to be over, but I halt when I catch something out of the corner of my eye.

“Pork rinds.”

Damon stops walking. “Isn’t on the list… and _ew.”_

“No,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “They aren’t here.”

“So?”

“They’ve been _right here—”_ I point to the shelf, which is now stocked with bags of Doritos. “—every single shopping trip we’ve been on for God knows how long!”

“I haven’t noticed.”

I huff in exasperation. “Well, I _have!_ Isn’t this proof of what I’ve been saying?”

Damon looks up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I just want to go home. I’m tired, hungry, and I’ve decided that you really _are_ the most annoying person I have ever met.”

There it goes again. The feeling of having the wind knocked out of me. My best—and only—friend has called me annoying many times, but I never thought he truly meant it—he always had a hint of affection in his voice, a slight grin on his face…

But those tells are absent now.

His mouth is drawn in a line, eyebrows furrowed, and he cannot look at me.

“Fine,” I say after a beat. “I’ll go then.”

That should have been the end of it—no other words should’ve been spoken, but Damon has this horrible compulsion to drive his hurtful words home. He is famous for telling me that I don’t always get to have the last word—only, he’s just as guilty of needing it as I am.

“Thank God—I thought you’d never leave me alone!”

I freeze, flinching, cursing myself as my eyes begin to fill with tears. I open my mouth, but I don’t really have anything to say back to him. I’m floundering.

So, I march out of the store.

At first, I don’t see anything out of the ordinary, don’t hear anything aside from the song blaring from the speakers above my head.

One of Damon’s guilty pleasure songs—Tiffany’s _I Think We’re Alone Now._

I hated it at first, but whenever he put the CD in, I inevitably begin to bob my head and hum along with Damon as he sings.

But it sounds off—there’s another beat under it. Quiet at first but getting louder and louder. And then I turn, slowly, apprehensively, toward the little carousel. I assumed it was broken because Damon had tried to put a quarter in the machine the last time we had to get groceries and it didn’t move.

Now… it’s moving in a lazy circle, the painted circus animals moving up and down in time to the cheery tune.

That’s wrong… something very bad is about to happen. The hairs on my arms are standing up, my flesh covered in goosebumps. I _know,_ deep down, that I should go back inside, get Damon, and book it to 22 Broken Arrow Road. Lock all the doors once we are safely inside and draw the blinds.

I shrug off the suspicion.

I really don’t want to interact with Damon. Right now, all I want to do is cry, weep until I can’t any longer. So, I trudge down the street, moving in the opposite direction of home.

As hard as I try, I can’t get rid of the nagging urge to turn around. It’s as if I’m tethered to Damon and trying to prove otherwise is futile. The greater the distance I put between us, the more resistance I feel trying to go forward.

I’m being pulled back, my gut twisting, toes curling in my sandals, fingertips itching, forehead pooling with nervous sweat. Before I know it, I’m standing in front of the store again.

The merry-go-round is still going.

I re-enter the building, unsure of what I might be greeted with. At first, I don’t see anything besides baskets of fruit and the little scale hanging above them. I venture deeper into the store, past the sunglasses, the fridges full of gallons of milk, cartons of eggs, and bags of shredded cheese.

It’s here that I spot him, about halfway across the room. Damon is sprawled out on the floor, behind a box of patio umbrellas, blood leaking from what appears to be a wound on the top of his left hand.

It’s easy to see how labored his breathing is, how much pain he is in. Damon’s groans bounce off the walls and echo in my ears. My heart lurches in my chest. I can’t _stand_ seeing him writhing in agony. It makes me feel like I’m going to puke.

That isn’t the most surprising thing about the scene playing out in front of me, though.

Hovering over Damon is a young man with dark hair and crazy eyes, holding an umbrella above his head, wielding it like a sword. The wooden handle is snapped in half, broken end splintered and jagged—and poised to run right through Damon when the mystery man brings it down. Broken bottles of bourbon, vodka, and white wine are scattered across the floor, most of the shards piled up by Damon. I wonder if the assailant did that purposefully, as a way to cause the man crumpled at his feet more discomfort as he waits for the final blow.

The itching in my fingertips turns into a burning, that soon overwhelms me entirely. I don’t know what makes me think a burst of adrenaline will be enough for me to take this asshole down, but it’s what propels me forward, straight into the mayhem.

“Oh, look,” the guy says to Damon. “It’s the useless one.”

Damon grunts, unintelligible words slipping from his mouth.

“I’ve been watching you, Bonnie…” he continues tauntingly. “How can you be so fucking oblivious?”

I cock my head to the side, a silent gesture of encouragement. I want to keep him talking for as long as possible—that’ll give me time to come up with a solution.

I glance down at Damon briefly. He’s in worse shape than I thought—his skin is covered in unsightly burns. I can only hope that his shirt protected the rest of his torso from whatever caused it.

“… I mean, I get that you don’t remember anything from before, but my _God_ , I thought you would’ve at _least_ opened Emily’s grimoire by now.”

_Okay, so I’m not the only delusional one… what the hell is he talking about?_

“It’s kind of obvious, don’t you think? Never mind… it’s not like you’ll figure it out in time anyway… why don’t you take a seat and relax… enjoy the show.” The sneer on his face repulses me.

“Don’t touch him!” I warn although he’s right… what can I do?

“What are you going to do about it?”

The feeling of adrenaline in me explodes—the exhilaration in me feels so wonderful, so freeing, and I suddenly feel so strong—like I can take on the entire world.

It doesn’t feel like _I’m_ the one speaking when I look down at Damon, “run.”

He’s gone in a flash. I literally blink and Damon is nowhere to be found.

 _Which is good,_ I think to myself, because in the next moments our surroundings burst into flames.


	7. Fire

* * *

**~Chapter Seven~**

* * *

_I am building a fire, and every day I train, I add more fuel. At just the right moment, I light the match._

_~Mia Hamm~_

* * *

The flames shoot upward, licking the tiled ceiling and scorching everything they touch. I find myself enthralled by the sight of it, unable to look away as the fire overtakes the space between me and that monster who tried to kill Damon.

I know—logically—that I should probably be wary of the puddles of bourbon on the floor. It only makes the fire bigger, more imposing, and harder to control.

And I think I’m the only one who has the ability to do that.

The man looks stricken as if he didn’t expect things to go sideways.

His mouth forms an O-shape before he says, almost too quiet to discern, “uh-oh.”

 _“Incendia,”_ I don’t know why I felt the need to say such a thing or what it truly meant, but it just seemed like the right thing to do.

The adrenaline rush is still strong, and things start to become a little clearer. I see glimpses of myself, almost like I’m a third-party observer inside my own head, sparking fires without a match, lighting candles by simply _staring_ at them.

Damon… on the ground… writhing in pain as I incinerated the pavement mere feet away from him… overcome by hatred, excited over the fact that he would be burned alive…

This scares me—sheer terror settles over me like a weighted blanket—and the fire dulls. Damon is the _last_ person I’d want to hurt. My eyes flicker to the ground, where he was just seconds prior, only to be surprised to see him standing behind his assailant a beat later.

Relief floods over me.

I want to erase the last hour or so from existence, pretend that we didn’t fight, and go back to a time when we didn’t know there was a crazy dude with us.

He grabs the guy by the neck, fingers digging into his flesh as he lifts him from the floor. I’m both surprised and unimpressed by Damon’s show of force. It’s an odd combination because I _know_ that he is strong, but it’s still weird to see him flaunt it like that.

“I’m sorry I called you annoying,” says Damon glibly. “I hadn’t met him yet.”

The fire dies out completely and Damon crosses the room, boots crushing the broken glass into dust, splashing ash and bourbon in my direction.

The dark-haired man struggles as he gets dragged by Damon, feet kicking feebly, trying to get purchase on the slippery floor.

“I’m sorry!” he chokes out and he genuinely sounds as though he means it. There’s something about his eyes, however, that gives me pause—they’re empty, devoid of emotion.

The darkness I sense in him sends a chill down my spine.

When Damon releases him, his expression changes, and it’s one of remorse. I don’t trust it, not for a single second. However, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about his motives.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen anyone around here. My social skills are a little rusty.”

 _“That’s_ the understatement of the century,” Damon huffs, dropping him at my feet.

“… Let’s start over,” he suggests, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’m Kai Parker.”

“So… you’re saying you’re like a less powerful, crazy version of Spider-Man?” Damon is underwhelmed, which he exaggerates by yawning in boredom.

I glare at Damon pointedly. Hopefully, my message is clear: _play nice._ Turning my attention to Kai, I say, “Why were you trying to kill my friend?”

“Man, you get right to the point, don’t you? I’m not surprised.”

“I’m waiting,” my level of agitation is rising. I honestly don’t know how long I can maintain this false sense of confidence. The longer we have to wait for his reply, the more I find myself questioning everything that just went down.

_And that awful daydream._

Kai lets out a long sigh. “I didn’t _want_ to kill him… at first.”

_“How comforting!”_

“Damon!”

“Why are you being so nice to him?” Damon asks, throwing his hands up. “If you hadn’t come back, he would’ve impaled me with a cheap umbrella! I’d be a fucking shish-kabob!”

“I want answers,” I respond. “And he’s going to give them.” I tilt my chin toward Kai.

“Or what?” he hedges. He seems to like pushing the envelope just as much—if not more—than Damon.

I don’t have to explain. The way my anger flares, lights flickering as it reaches its peak, says it all.

“No one else is supposed to be here. When I realized you guys were around, I got freaked out. I mean, it’s like the start of a bad joke. _A vampire and a Bennett witch walk into a bar…”_

“Huh?”

Kai stands up slowly, turning to face Damon. “You haven’t told her?”

_“Told me what?”_

“Well, to be fair to Damon, it should be pretty obvious. He’s a vampire. A cheap, knockoff version of Count Dracula.”

“Excuse me?”

“My bad,” Kai says apologetically. “I meant to say _Count Chockulah.”_

 _“_ What the hell are you talking about?” I snap, eying both dark-haired men suspiciously.

That’s absurd! Vampires aren’t real. Though, a vehement tugging feeling in the pit of my stomach pulls me back to that horrific fantasy.

_Damon was laying in the fire’s path of destruction for a reason._

“I think you know,” Kai says.

I look to Damon for clarification. He smiles at me—the very smile that I’ve gotten so used to seeing. The one that he flashes whenever he’s done something particularly aggravating. The one I return before we both burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter.

Rationally, I can’t do anything but deny it. Only, I know that rationality flew out the window a long time ago. And, deep down, I know it’s true. Those hospital runs in the middle of the night probably have nothing to do with creating a well-stocked first aid kit. Sure, he makes an effort to return with plenty of medical supplies, but he has other reasons for going.

Without me.

“The blood bank,” I murmur, more to myself than either of them.

“Guilty as charged,” Damon quips.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not exactly something that comes up in conversation, Bonster.”

“And it’s not like he’s the only one holding things back,” Kai announces knowingly, raising his eyebrows.

_A vampire and a Bennett witch walk into a bar…_

I swallow the lump forming in my throat. It’s a preposterous implication—I’m just Bonnie Bennett. A regular person, a human. But I can’t help but remember the giant tomes I found in the hall closet, amongst boxes of games and other various knickknacks.

“I’m not hiding anything,” I say, voice shaking.

The grin that spreads across Kai’s features is one that exudes pity. “No, of course not, Bonnie.” He grasps my hand, patting it gently.

His touch is both unexpected and weird. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is that makes the gesture so odd, but I do know that I’ve had enough of Kai Parker for one day.

I yank my hand away, cradling it close to my chest. “Just keep explaining. Do you know why we’re here… and why our memories are completely…” I struggle to find the right word for it.

“Fucked,” Damon supplies, peering around the man standing in-between us.

“I’m not so sure you guys really want to know the answer to that…”

Damon cranes his neck, looking up and down the aisle, surveying the massive amount of destruction we caused. His face lights up and he grabs that broken umbrella handle from amongst the rubble. It’s a sight for sore eyes—especially when you catch a glimpse of the side that ends in a sharp point.

It’s dripping with Damon’s blood.

I have to look away, but the offending object is placed squarely in my line of sight when Damon presses it against Kai’s back.

“Talk,” he commands through clenched teeth.

“Alright, alright,” he holds his palms out in surrender. “You might want to sit down, though. It’ll blow your minds.” He pauses, waiting for either of us to wander over to the bloody, burned patio chairs on the opposite side of the bin where he got the umbrella. “o-kay,” he stretches the word out awkwardly, “don’t say I didn’t warn you…”

“We won’t.”

“You’re dead.”

The silence that follows Kai’s claim is abruptly shattered by the sound of Damon’s laughter. “Okay, sure, sure… but what _really_ happened?”

“You died,” he reiterates.

“I’m _un_ dead,” Damon insists. “Bonnie’s a Bennett. Come up with a better lie.”

“What does my last name have to do with all this?”

“Oh Bonnie… poor, sweet, confused, little Bonnie… surely you understand what I’m trying to tell you…”

I want to slap Kai. “Just get to the part where this all starts being believable.”

“You’re a witch. A dead witch, but a witch nonetheless.”

“How can we be… dead? How am I supposed to take this seriously?”

“Let me show you…” Kai says, tone cajoling as if he knows I’ll resist his method of explanation.

Another dark chuckle from Damon. “Fat chance, kid.”

“Come on Bonnie… you know you want to know what’s going on… tell Frank Farmer over there to settle down.”

“No,” my voice is firm. Clear. “I won’t.”

_Get rid of Damon… I don’t bite. And unlike him, I mean it._

I keep my eyes trained on Kai’s mouth, which never moves. It sounds like he’s right next to me, whispering in my ear… breath tickling my skin…

Backing up, I shake my head. “Stay away from me.”

“You heard her,” Damon pushes his weapon into Kai’s flesh ever so lightly. “Leave her alone.”

“I want to know why you thought you could kill him—” I nod toward Damon, speaking as though he hadn’t chimed in. “—if we’re already dead.”

“Easy,” says Kai. I wonder how long he had been waiting for me to bring that particular caveat up. “This is not heaven—obviously. Believe it or not, it isn’t even hell. It’s the in-between space—a waiting room, almost. Well, for you two. For me, it’s a prison, but that’s another story for another day. Your grandmother—” he gestures to me. “brought you two here. Specifically. My family put me here, too, so don’t feel too bad. It’s a power thing. People get scared when they know someone else is stronger than them.”

“My grandmother?”

“Sheila Bennett,” Kai fills in.

_Stay strong, Bonnie._

I don’t know what to think as that statement rings in my ears. My grandmother… a warm feeling spreads throughout my chest at the mere mention of the word. I have such a strong association of love when Kai brought this unknown woman— _Shelia—_ up that I can’t imagine she would ever hurt me intentionally.

My gaze falls to the ground and I stare thoughtfully at a few sparkling glass shards as well as the tops of Kai’s shoes.

“Well, that’s not entirely true, I guess.” Kai shrugs. _“You’re_ the one that sacrificed yourself for your friends… or so I’ve heard.”

“What friends?” But I think I know who he’s referring to; the girls in the photograph that I now keep in the drawer of my nightstand. After a bit, looking at them made me feel uncomfortable, and when I stashed it in my back pocket, the picture felt as though it would burn a hole in my pants.

“There’s so much you still don’t know; that even Barnabas Collins over there doesn’t know. You could remember it all if you just _trust me._ I didn’t try to kill _you,_ did I?”

“Doesn’t mean you won’t try later,” I say coldly.

Kai seems pleased by my counterargument. “You’re smart, Bennett. I think I like you.”

“The feeling isn’t mutual.”

If my reaction bothers him, he doesn’t show it. The half-smile/half-smirk on his face doesn’t waver. In fact, his eyes glimmer with what I can only describe as excitement. “I get it. And I even accept it, Bon Bon. You may not be able to see it right now, but we are on the same side. We want the same thing. You just have to figure out what that is.”

“Don’t call her that!” Damon snaps. “Nicknaming is my thing.”

“Ooh, are you jealous Damon? Scared of a little competition? Afraid Bonnie won’t want to shack up with a bloodsucker anymore?”

Damon is clearly majorly offended by this and he takes the bait like a fish starving for worms. He engages Kai in a verbal battle even more petty than the ones we had this morning. They volley insults back-and-forth, completely forgetting about my presence. They are talking about me as if I’m not in the room.

The agitation I am experiencing, mixed in with a healthy dose of bewilderment, grows into fury. A very pure, uncontrollable type of rage. I wonder if my blood pressure is skyrocketing or if I’m hyper-sensitive to how tense my body is.

Probably a bit of both if I had to make an educated guess.

_“Shut up!”_

Both men freeze, their attention turned on the light fixtures above us.

They have begun to spark, and each one hits the floor, somehow just missing the puddles of bourbon. Is it sheer luck that the store doesn’t go up in flames or something else entirely?

“I’m _not_ a trophy and you _will not_ speak about me like I am!” The lights begin to flicker again. “And you’re fucking _insane!”_ This is a statement meant solely for Kai Parker—if that is even his real name.

“See?” Damon interjects childishly. “She hates you!”

I whirl around to face my best friend. His blue eyes are staring back at me, mouth downturned into a slight frown when he realizes I’m not exactly happy with him either. _“You! You knew about this!”_

“Well, not completely… it was more of an inkling.”

 _“Damon!”_ I’m a bit embarrassed by the sadness seeping into my voice. “Why’d you lie to me?”

“It wasn’t a lie, per se. I just didn’t tell you _yet._ I was going to bring it up that night,” he doesn’t need to specify an exact date for me to know what he’s referring to. “I had to give you my blood… I didn’t know what else to do.” His tone is filled with regret.

“Your blood…”

“Yeah. It’s better than regular medical intervention. Heals injuries way more efficiently. It’s one of the perks of being doomed to walk the Earth for hundreds of years. It’s only a matter of time before I have to endure a decade with worse fashion sense than the eighties.” Damon shudders theatrically. “So much hairspray…”

“You know,” Kai says lazily, examining his fingernails as if he has more important things to do. “You’d have gotten that memo if you _opened those books.”_

Reflexively, I reach up and pinch my arm.

_Nope. I’m wide awake._

“I need air,” I announce, though I don’t really know who I’m addressing.

“Of course,” Kai says sweetly. “Take all the time you need. Something tells me you’ll know how to contact me when you’re ready.”

I make my way to the entrance.

Damon places a hand on my shoulder, which I promptly shrug off. I’m not in the mood to deal with the jolt that accompanies his touch.

Right now, despite the comfort it brings, it makes me feel ill.

“Bonster…”

“Just… leave me alone, Damon.”

And for once, Salvatore doesn’t have anything to respond with. I risk a backward glance at them. Kai, who is actually far glibber than my best friend, is waving at me pleasantly.

A kind farewell gesture.

Damon, however, can only stare back at me in silence, wearing an expression I never thought I’d see.

Regret.

_~~X~~_

I decide I can’t go back to 22 Broken Arrow Road.

Well, I need to gather a few essentials before I find somewhere else to stay, but after that, I plan on keeping far away from Damon and the home we created.

For a few days, at the very least.

There’s so much I have to process, so much to think about. I mean, it’s not every day that a person receives two completely insane pieces of news like this.

 _You’re a witch. Oh, and by the way, as if_ that _isn’t crazy enough, you’re also dead._

But it _does_ seem true, the more I replay Kai’s words over, analyzing everything from his tone of voice to his body language. Why else would a random aisle in a grocery store erupt into flames; at the very moment, my emotions began going haywire? How else would it explain why I just seem to _know_ things?

I stomp up the driveway and into the little house, wondering where I should start. I decide to grab a few necessities from my bedroom, mainly clothes, and work my way back to the foyer.

As I’m shoving things into my tote bag, I wince. I don’t know how long I’ll want space or if it’s even safe for me to leave Damon alone with Kai lurking around Mystic Falls.

But if what Kai told us is real, if we _are_ dead, could he really kill us? He could be playing the whole purgatory versus the afterlife schtick up. What—if any—difference is there between _here_ and wherever it is that souls go when their human bodies are no more? Am I even grasping the point my new acquaintance was trying to make?

I trudge downstairs after I grab a few toiletries from the bathroom, circling back to my room at the last second to grab that picture I hid from myself. I have a hunch I might need it. The last items on my list are ones that I wish I could do without.

The tomes in the hall closet.

They are far too big (as well as ridiculously heavy) to fit in my travel bag. So, I have to carry them in my arms, as I try not to buckle under the extra weight.

An impossible task, seeing as I have no clue as to where I’ll spend the night.


	8. Wild Horses

* * *

**~Chapter Eight~**

* * *

_I know I dreamed you a sin and a lie  
I have my freedom, but I don't have much time  
Faith has been broken, tears must be cried  
Let's do some living after we die_

_~The Rolling Stones, Wild Horses~_

* * *

As I walk down the street, turning left on Cedarwood Lane, I tell myself that all the negative energy will disappear once I’m far enough away from my house. Of course, I’ll have to keep going until I feel safe—no matter how many avenues I have to bypass in this maze of a neighborhood.

I just have to be resilient.

None of the houses I come across seem like a good fit for me. I’m acting like Goldilocks—one building is too small, the next one too large. In fact, I’m mildly taken aback that there’s even that much variation between the homes on this road and the ones on every other street I’ve walked.

Then, my thoughts begin to wander back to Damon before I can stop them. Has he explored this side of town? Does he know how big the residential area in Mystic Falls actually is?

But I remind myself that the hospital is on the opposite end and I am creating a larger gap between us with every step in this direction. I’m rounding another corner (on Morningside Street) when it hits me.

 _This_ is the place where I’ll sort everything out.

A cute, medium-sized, white house. It has a sprawling yard of lush grass, patches of pink flowers cordoned off in a tiny garden. A spacious porch with a swing situated off to the side. It shares a few similarities with the house I woke up in—the quaint feel, the sense of feeling like I’ve somehow been here before without realizing it.

I take a deep breath and make my way over to the front door.

Unlike most other private spaces around here, it’s unlocked. A relief because I don’t need yet another reason to miss my best friend. My goal is to show him that I don’t need him to maintain what small modicum of sanity I’ve been clinging to. Wanting him to break locks won’t help me in that department.

It seems like I’m supposed to be here. That, for some reason, this stunning example of the American Dream contains a very important piece to the puzzle. Maybe I’ll stumble across a conveniently placed photo album that can shed some light on this vampire/witch nonsense.

The interior layout of this house is almost an exact copy of the other one. The only difference is everything is flipped. The stairs here are off to the right, the dining room on the left, the family room smack-dab in the center. The walls and furniture are warm in color. Deep browns and ivory—a plush sectional with chocolate-colored fabric and dark wooden tables and floors. The television sits atop a stand about the same size as mine, picture frames covering every inch that isn’t taken up by the screen.

I bend over to get a closer look at them.

In several photographs, I see some familiar faces.

A blonde, a brunette, and a curly-haired child with green eyes.

I can’t be any older than two years old here; Caroline, Elena, and I seem to have known each other since we were babies. A bit of information that gives me a fuzzy feeling. A sense of comfort. Another piece of this convoluted puzzle.

 _But you’re dead,_ a voice that reminds me of Kai says.

The sense of security vanishes, leaving me cold, nervous, and exposed. This place—Mystic Falls and all of its emptiness—isn’t a good one. If I believe my new acquaintance, this is where you wait, desperately trying to figure out who you once were. And then, when you get a glimmer of hope, when you think you might be okay with just being you as you currently are, the guillotine drops, and you’re left floundering before whatever you had left is snuffed out.

I flip all the pictures over, placing them face-down on the shelf before I take my belongings upstairs.

Similar pictures greet me in the hall, though I don’t see any that feature Caroline or me. Instead, Elena and a couple that must be her parents are the focal points. One of Elena with a bowl of oatmeal on her head, smiling as she smears the stuff all over the tray on her high chair. A picture of her holding a very small baby—wrinkly and wrapped in a blue blanket. One more of the baby alone, dressed in a onesie with the name _Jeremy_ stitched across the front.

It’s cute. Heartwarming.

Unsettling.

I hurry into the first room I find.

It’s a bedroom, decorated in the same color scheme as the rest of the house. A giant E hangs on the wall across from me. I know immediately who is supposed to be sleeping here.

And I would’ve realized that even without the huge clue right in front of me.

This is Elena’s room. Her house, her stuff, all of it belongs to her.

I drop my bag on the floor, unsure of what to do. I want to turn around and leave. I want to find Damon, but a stubborn part of me doesn’t want to think about how much I really care about him, how betrayed his secrecy makes me feel, how much I’ve grown to love being around him. And there is also the issue of the existence of the supernatural (and the fact that I might fall into that category).

So, I reposition the huge books in my arms, stationing myself on the small armchair by the closet. Kicking my feet up on the matching ottoman, I flip to the first page.

The itching in my fingers returns as I scan the entries for familiar words. I have to read through several lists of initials (or maybe they’re acronyms—who knows?) to locate the table of contents. The Grimoire, as Kai called it, is split into sections. There are spells for all kinds of things. Healing injuries, causing pain, mind-reading, looking into the past, understanding prophetic dreams, inducing visions, creating potions and elixirs, manipulating nature. Each spell is organized by name, type, and difficulty.

And there are _thousands_ of them, if not millions.

In a single book.

On top of that, is the fact that only some of the descriptions are written in English. Most of it just looks like complete gibberish to me and I can’t make heads or tails of it.

I don’t know how long I am sitting here, confused, hopeless, and frustrated, until I give up.

It feels like it’s been hours, but a glance out the window tells me that it’s probably the early afternoon. I wonder why time is moving at a snail’s pace—slow and lazy. My head throbs and I rub my temples. Maybe buying into all of the craziness was a bad idea, but deep down, I know there’s so much more to the story than what was told to me.

_If I could just clear my head…_

I head over to the closet, which is smaller than mine and jam-packed with jewel-toned tops and blouses. Sneakers and boots line the floor. I sift through Elena’s shirts until I land on one that is all too familiar to me.

The Comet Festival t-shirt.

It is the same size as the one I have. In fact, it’s totally identical to mine, right down to the highlighted date on the back.

It isn’t a coincidence that I stumbled onto the mysterious girl’s block, that I selected her home to take refuge in, and I’m just tired. Of it all. The confusion, the outlandish claims, the paranoia… it’s draining me.

And I hadn’t quite realized how much energy I wasted until this very second.

I feel like I could sleep for days. My body is so achy, so worn out, that I can’t really think about anything else. Well, _almost_ anything else. I’m also acutely aware of the way my clothes reek of a campfire, soot marring the sleeves and hem of my white top.

The smell is actually somewhat comforting—the memory of how the fire danced both pleasant and thrilling. Scary, too, because of the way it made me feel. I was in control of the flames; they bent to _my_ will. I can’t help but wonder how much further I could push myself before I couldn’t handle it anymore.

My stomach drops to my feet and I get a horrible feeling that the answer isn’t a good one.

I opt to shower, to wash away the reminders of what happened at the grocery store.

I scrub my skin with peach-scented body wash until it’s raw and stinging.

Ignoring the angry red scratches on my arms, I stand under the hot water until it doesn’t burn anymore. Only then do I stumble out of the tub, wrapping myself in a fluffy pink towel before heading back to Elena’s bedroom.

The sky has grown dark and a pinkish-purple light bleeds through the beige curtains, tinging the space with a spooky vibe. I head over to the window and open it. The warm air feels nice on my face and the moonlight gives me a sense of security that I don’t quite understand.

And then I look down.

Hanging off the edge of the window sill is a single feather.

A jet-black feather. One that would reflect shades of blue and violet if held under the right lighting. It’s soft, undamaged; like someone plucked it straight from a crow’s body. I grab it from the ledge, unwilling to let it blow away if a breeze picked up.

Once I’ve shut the window and made my way over to the bed, I examine it closely, pinching it between my thumb and forefinger. From what little I could glean from those spell books, witches liked to make good use of nature. At least when it came to brewing potions. I find myself thinking about all those strange words, about how they didn’t make any sense to me.

Did I understand it before, in my other life?

Were Elena and Caroline witches, too? Or were they blissfully unaware of the existence of vampires and magic-wielders? Were Damon and I close… is that why he doesn’t seem like a stranger?

_Maybe we were something else entirely…_

A surge of renewed anger flows through me.

Whatever we were when we were alive holds no bearing on how I feel about him now. I mean, if I am really _that_ important to Damon Salvatore, then why’d he feel the need to lie about who he was? Why didn’t he tell me about anything?

I twirl the feather between my fingers, thinking.

Right now, I decide, is not the time I should be obsessing over the shitshow that was my day. I shouldn’t let Damon or Kai take up any more of my time, any more space inside my head. Obviously, I’ve done all I can tonight (which is not much) and I’ll revisit it in the morning.

Setting the feather on the bedside table, I climb into Elena’s bed. Her sheets and comforter feel rough against my skin, her pillows are just a bit too soft, her house eerily silent. I can’t help but recall the bet Damon and I made, how sleeping beside him would make me feel far less vulnerable now that my hunch is confirmed, that losing to him would be preferable now that I am truly alone.

Even if I am consumed by rage at the moment.

Telling myself that I don’t need to worry, I let my eyelids flutter closed, and drift off into what is sure to be a fitful sleep.

I dream of icy blue eyes, a crazy psychopath, and an all-consuming fire.

* * *

_Date: June 10 th, 1994 ~ Damon and Bonnie time  
Place: The home of Elena Gilbert  
Mystic Falls, Virginia_

* * *

I’ve been away from Damon for several days now, and he hasn’t taken it all that well.

All week, he’s been trying to convince me to leave the Gilbert house, through (mostly) indirect means. On my second night here, he left a bouquet of wildflowers and red roses at the window; along with a slew of black feathers. Then, he tried to catch my attention by leaving all the ingredients for his pancake recipe on the front steps. When that didn’t yield results, he stood in the front yard (around midnight) and sang Salt ‘N Peppa songs until I got out of bed and told him to shut the hell up.

I’m displeased that I haven’t heard from him this morning, though not enough to go seek him out. Chances are, he will make his way over here soon enough. The days we’ve spent separated has lessened the hurt and allowed me to _try_ to see things from his point of view. I probably would’ve laughed his claim off, told him he was crazy and changed the subject. I don’t believe—maybe stubbornly refuse to think otherwise is a better way of putting it—that he lied about the gaps in his memory. The way he regarded me that night in the clearing—with anguish, uncertainty, and regret—was real.

His pain was palpable, and I remember it clearly.

I stir another spoonful of sugar into my mug of coffee, absentmindedly flipping through the pages of the first Grimoire. Bits and pieces of the strange language have started to come back to me. For instance, any spell where _incendia_ is a part of the incantation means it has something to do with fire. _Modus_ seems to denote movement and _plantus_ encompasses anything involving flowers and foliage.

I lift my gaze from the book, eyes landing on a small potted plant sitting in the middle of the table. It has just begun to grow, green tendrils poking out of the soil. It’s been like that since I arrived and I’ve been tending to it diligently, watering it and setting it under a lamp every so often.

But maybe I could hasten its growth a little bit…

Positioning my hand, palm down, over the clay pot, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The words ghost over my lips, but I don’t put any sound behind it. I’m still pretty self-conscious about the whole thing, always afraid that it won’t work, scared that there’s a chance it might, confused over which outcome would frighten me more.

I peek at the sprout.

Nothing changed.

_“Plantus mi incrementum.”_

That sweet feeling of warmth and strength overwhelms me. I get lost in the euphoria, the comfort, the knowledge that I’m no longer desperately looking for what I’ve been missing…

I am watching as the plant grows and grows, leaves sprouting from the stem, flower buds forming until pink petals are visible. It soon becomes too large for its pot, the vines curling around the edges of the container.

Covering the tabletop, causing cracks to form…

The next words tumble out of my mouth, hurried and frantic. _“Mort di plantus.”_

The petals that were so vibrant in color dry out, shrivel up, turn an ugly shade of brown. Stem drooping and accelerated growth halted. I wrack my brain for a spell I found last night, frustrated that I went overboard with magic that I assumed would be rudimentary. _“Reparium.”_

The broken planter reverts to its original state, leaving the dirt that poured through the tiny openings coating the table.

_~~X~~_

My coffee is cold when I’m finally able to return to it. It took longer to clean up the leftover soil than I would’ve liked. There’s also the small hitch in my ability to differentiate between hours and minutes when I’m practicing my craft. Time isn’t a construct when I’m focusing on how _good_ I feel, the pure, unadulterated power I can wield.

And I’m always tired when I snap back to reality.

I’ve noticed that I’m prone to headaches and nosebleeds if I overexert myself. I’ve also realized that overdoing it, pushing myself too far, is fairly easy to do. I wonder how often that happened to me when I was alive… or rather, not trapped in some strange prison with two sociopaths as my only companions (though I’m partial to one of them).

I lean back in my chair, back pressed against the wooden slats as I sip my drink. The fact that I can do so many fantastical things by uttering a few phrases in Latin is astounding. So wildly amazing. And yet… I’m still completely lost on how and why I wound up in a magical purgatory.

My focus returns to the Grimoire.

I bypass sections at a time until I land on the chapter entitled _Premonitions and Divination._

A small note, written in extremely fine print, is a warning that the spells and rituals listed here are very complex. Completing any one of them successfully takes skill, time, and very specific conditions. As I scan the first passage—which is located directly underneath the cautionary statement—I realize that I find it intimidating. The words I can’t use context clues to decipher outnumber those I can by a landslide. To add insult to injury, one of the terms that pops up in every other sentence is not one I’m happy to see.

_Mort._

My mouth goes dry.

I am beginning to understand why I was so against opening up this book. It’s basically a giant _keep out_ sign. _No trespassing, caution, enter at your own risk…_ and by immersing myself so deeply in reading it, I’ve essentially acted if those thoughts and warnings don’t mean a thing. That they are simply a result of me overthinking everything.

But something tells me that I shouldn’t view it that way—I have that sense of foreboding for a reason and I should find out why it’s there.

_You’ll know if you get your memories back…_

I shake my head, delving deeper into the chapter, hoping to find a spell that will help me do just that.

When I finally think I’m getting somewhere, there is a knock on the back door. I know who is there before our eyes meet. I have to do my best to suppress a smile, keep my face blank, devoid of any emotion—positive or negative.

Damon is standing on the patio, dressed in his usual t-shirt and jeans, hand poised to knock on the sliding glass door once again.

I slam the book shut and cock my head to the side. He doesn’t seem to have anything else with him, no props to bolster his next apology. I wonder what his plan is. Has he run out of ideas already?

“I’ve decided to approach this the old-fashioned way,” he explains, voice muffled by the slab of metal and glass in front of him.

“Oh?” I ask, curious. “And what does that entail?”

“I’m basically just going to keep making noise until you decide to talk to me again.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “And what makes you think that’ll work?”

“You’re easily irritated,” he says simply. And to drive his point home, he resumes his steady knocking.

“I’m ignoring you,” I cover my ears with my hands and go back to my research.

He takes this as an invitation to create a bigger distraction. “Oh Bon Bon, where for art thou, Bon Bon.”

I make it about halfway through his Shakespearian monologue until I crack. Stomping over to the door, I push it open and plant my hands on my hips. The grin he gives me is actually pretty endearing. So much so, that I have to remind myself not to get too excited… God knows what kind of spiel Damon’s cooked up.

“What?”

“Can I come in?”

“I don’t know… can you?”

He huffs in frustration. “Not without an invitation.”

“Come in… jackass.”

“Let’s hope that worked,” he says, acting as though he didn’t hear the last part of my sentence.

I back away from the door. He has plenty of room to walk into the kitchen, but when he tries to cross the threshold, an invisible wall prevents him from moving any closer to me.

“Vampire thing.”

So, there are more than a few true myths. I’ve learned that stakes, vervain, and fire are all good defensive strategies when protecting oneself from vampires, but the book didn’t elaborate on much else. Apparently, they can’t enter a residence without express permission from the homeowner. His insistence on getting my stamp of approval had very little to do with being polite.

Not that I’m shocked about it.

“So… are we done here, or do I have to break out the garlic?”

“Oh, you’ve got jokes now. _Ha, ha, ha._ Tell me, did taking your broomstick out of your ass put you in a better mood?”

“It did. But then my annoying, secret-keeping asshole of a best friend came back.”

“… I’m still your BFF?”

I mull his question over. Forever is a tricky concept now that I know we’re dead. Or whatever we are. The thing is this all feels so _real_. The sun’s warm rays beating down on us, the soft (occasional) breeze rusting the trees, the way Damon extends his hand my way, silently begging me to take it…

When our fingers touch, I pull away immediately. Such a small gesture shouldn’t feel so intimate, but it does and I’m not sure I’m ready to accept it again. Damon’s face falls—he tries to hide it—but he perks up when I step outside.

The deck burns the soles of my feet. I awkwardly hop over to the patio chairs and sit down, taking care to keep any unprotected skin away from the wood panels illuminated by sunlight.

Damon saunters over to where I sit, adjusts the umbrella attached to the table, and sits down in the empty spot beside me. I pay special attention to the pretty blue-and-silver ring on his finger. I’d assumed it was a family heirloom until I read something about “daylight talismans” in my Grimoire. It kept Damon from frying during the day, but he couldn’t have been able to get it to work without the help of a witch.

Just another clue that I don’t know how to interpret, I guess. It is probably something I should ask him about: _“who enchanted your lapis lazuli ring?”_ but I don’t want our conversation to be dominated by information. Part of me doesn’t even want to know the answer to that question.

“You don’t exactly have competition,” I say with a smirk. “But if you force me to go to that lunatic for an explanation, I’m totally going to have to re-think it.”

He nods, accepting my conditions. “So, potential ax murderer is where you draw the line. I can deal with that.”

“You can start apologizing at any time now.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he begins, voice low; like he’s embarrassed to be admitting a mistake. “I woke up knowing what I am… who I am. My brother, Saint Stefan: The Friendly Vampire, turned when I did. When you told me your name, I didn’t put two and two together. I don’t remember much about the Bennett family aside from the fact that they are extremely powerful witches and I’ve met a few of your relatives.”

“Which ones?”

“Emily Bennett—your great-great-something-or-other—and your grandmother. Sheila.”

I try to conjure up a memory of these women, but other than a strong feeling of affection for Sheila, I’ve got nothing substantial. I’m trying to work through layers and layers of hazy déjà vu, and they don’t want to budge.

“She’s the woman in the photograph back home—that’s about all I’ve got.”

“Are you _sure_ that’s all you can tell me?” I press, hoping he’ll recall something else, something that would be of more help to me.

Damon shakes his head. “Sorry, Bonster. I don’t know anything else. I swear on the dime bag of marijuana I keep under my bed that you pretend not to know about.”

“Okay.” I sound defeated, dejected.

As I contemplate the validity of his claim, I tick off the major takeaways from what he has said. “So, you’re a vampire, and your brother is, too.” I pause, scrutinizing him, studying his face for signs of dishonesty.

I don’t see any—not even the mischievous glint in his eyes, the one that tells me he raided the _Monopoly_ bank when I went to the bathroom.

“And you didn’t fill me in because…” I prompt him.

“It was fun. I didn’t feel like I was evil or an abomination. Just a normal, run-of-the-mill asshole.”

“So, your delightful personality has nothing to do with feeling like you’re eternally damned?”

He beams. “Nope—I was a douchebag when I was human, too—at least, that’s what Stefan says. I preferred to think of myself as confident, but not everyone can handle this much amazingness.”

“Your delusions are amplified, I see.”

“Along with every other human emotion,” Damon says cheerfully. “It’s like being on crack 24/7.”

“Lovely.”

He shrugs one of his shoulders. “Sometimes.”

“… Do you think that’s why you can remember some things and I can’t remember anything?” I ask after a beat.

“Probably,” he says with a level of conviction I don’t have.

I slump down in the chair. I’m sick of all this crap. I’m tired of _not knowing,_ of feeling alone, scared, and paranoid. And now I have a name for all of the anxiety: Kai. I’ve tried not to dwell on what he wants or why he’s here. After a day or two, I no longer felt like my every move was being watched, so I wanted to put him on the backburner.

“Why so blue, Cindy Lou Who?”

I stare at Damon quizzically. “What?”

“The girl who made the Grinch’s heart grow three sizes,” he prompts, raising an eyebrow. “Dr. Suess… the VHS tape you threatened me with the last time you accused me of stacking the deck when we played _Clue…”_

“I know who you’re talking about. I want to know why you compared me to her.”

“You’re short… she’s short… it rhymed. Keep up, Bennett. _Sheesh—_ it’s not rocket science.”

I don’t know what to say. So, I just go back to sulking. Talking about our new neighbor will do nothing but put bad vibes in the atmosphere, maybe even cause another fight between us. It’s best to just pretend he doesn’t exist.

“Cheer up, Buttercup,” he goes on as if there wasn’t a pointed silence. “I don’t think Kai even cares about us anymore—that’s a positive.”

There’s that uncanny ability of his. Apparently, time apart hasn’t dulled his keen sense of reading my body language.

I straighten up. “What makes you think that?”

“After you left; he did, too. He said something stupid, smirked, and walked out. Haven’t seen him since.”

“What did he say?”

“I don’t know… I wasn’t really listening.”

“Damon!”

“What? He tried to kill me, Bon Bon. Forgive me for not giving a shit about him.”

I groan. “You didn’t think it might be a good idea to use him to figure out what’s going on?”

“Yeah,” he says, tapping his chin. “No. I’d rather gouge my eyes out. He’s the last person we should be asking questions.”

“He _is_ the last person,” I retort. “We’ve got no other choice.”

“I don’t know if that’s even an option,” he leans back in the chair, lacing his hands behind his head. “We might be stuck.”

I shake my head fiercely. “We aren’t stuck… we _can’t be._ There are _thousands_ of spells in those Grimoires. There _has_ to be one that can get us back to where we were before.”

Damon doesn’t say anything for a long time. He’s torn. I can tell by the way he refuses to meet my eyes. He stares straight ahead, into the backyard of the house next store. There are times at night, when I toss and turn, unable to fall asleep, that I think about the people who are alive. I imagine different scenarios for them—I always circle back to Elena and Caroline, though. It never fails, I could dream up the backstory of a family that lived on another street entirely and I dream up scenarios where they would cross paths with Elena and/or Caroline and I’d try to figure out where I fit into the story.

And if Damon is by my side.

It’s silly; I always lose steam when I get to the part where I have to decide what I want to do. Which could be anything, really. I don’t know who I was before or how satisfied I felt. Theoretically speaking, I could choose from several different possibilities, decide what my past looked like, steer myself in the direction of my ideal future, but I never get to the end.

I fall asleep before I can sort that part out.

The only constant is Damon.

When I close my eyes, the first person I see is him. It’s never the same dream—it could be sweet, weird, scary, or realistic, but he’s there. This particular occurrence is probably only a thing because I went from seeing him the majority of the time to almost not at all. That doesn’t stop me from second-guessing myself (because apparently _nothing_ is straight-forward) and the whole “witch thing” complicates matters even more. It leaves me yearning for simplicity.

Normalcy.

And going back to before is the only way I can think to get it.

“You sound confident in your witchy juju,” he remarks smugly.

I make sure my tone matches his when I respond. “I’m confident that I don’t want to be trapped here with _Kai_ any longer than we already have.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Damon admits with surprisingly little resistance.

“I just need to figure out how to do it.”

A slow smile spreads across the vampire’s face. “Well, you’re in luck, Bonster. I have an unopened bottle of bourbon at home and I’m in a sharing mood…”

“Well…” I draw out the word for a few syllables. “That rarely happens.”

“And would you _really_ be the responsible one if you left me to drink it by myself?”

“Yes, but if you are going to get sloppy drunk and embarrass yourself then I definitely want to be around to see it.”

“Says the one with the lower tolerance,” Damon sticks his tongue out at me. “I’m trying to be the bigger person here and all you care about is me making a fool of myself.”

“Is that Damon-speak for ‘I missed you, Bonnie?’”

“If I say yes, will you come back home? It’s fucking _boring_ playing board games by myself.”

“Yes.”

Damon rolls his eyes and makes a show of bellyaching about my request. “Fine! _I missed you, Bonnie!”_

“See?” I laugh. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I’d rather have a root canal without Novocain,” he grumbles.

“Doesn’t matter, I’ll remember this moment forever. It will go down in history as The Day That Damon Begged Bonnie to Spend Time with Him.”

“Okay,” he begins, still grumpy. “One, I said solitude was boring. That’s hardly begging. And two, that is unnecessarily wordy—what holiday do you know with that long of a name?”

“That one,” I say simply, making my way back to the door. Before we go anywhere, I want to collect my clothes and the Grimoires.

“You are nuts, Bennett!”

“I’ll see you back at home, Damon.” I close the sliding glass door slowly, waving as he watches me from the deck.

“I better,” he calls back with a smile

I’m not sure who is more relieved that we made up, but maybe it doesn’t have to be like that. Maybe we are both supposed to be in each other’s lives, neither person needier than the other. Perhaps there’s no more or less. What if we are on even ground?

 _That’s how it’s_ supposed _to be,_ I think and I am glad that I can at least be sure of that one thing.


	9. A Sinking Suspicion

* * *

**~Chapter Nine~**

* * *

" _Intuition is seeing with the soul."  
~Dean Koontz~_

* * *

_Date: June 17th_ , 1994 ~ Damon and Bonnie time  
 _Place: 22 Broken Arrow Road_  
 _Mystic Falls, Virginia_

* * *

"Can you _be_ any more boring?"

I don't lift my eyes from the page when I answer Damon. "Is that a challenge, Salvatore?"

" _God, no,"_ he whines, falling onto the couch with a dramatic flourish. "If we weren't already dead, I'd have croaked from boredom by now."

"Well, if you helped me with the research, maybe you wouldn't feel that way." I don't have to look at him to know that he is grimacing.

"I don't speak witch. How am I supposed to read those things?"

"Sound out the _really_ big words."

My gaze flickers over to my best friend, who is reaching for the Grimoire sitting atop the coffee table. He examines the cover in exasperation before kicking his feet up and flipping to a random page.

A peaceful quiet falls over us, interrupted every so often by Damon, who sighs pointedly in fifteen-minute intervals. He doesn't want me to believe that he finds this any more entertaining than his previous activity (i.e. his childish attempts at distracting me).

I have to admit that I like being home, though.

Without Damon, this task would be even more monotonous than it currently is. Not to mention difficult and frustrating.

Probably more productive, though.

Upon my return, Damon and I immediately went back to our normal routine. It wasn't a big adjustment, but rather an automatic transition. No thought or discussion was required. Though, we did exchange a few barbs about what happened at the store—both pre-and post-Kai—but it was never done in malice. He cooked dinner, complaining about my meal requests; and I did laundry, lamenting over how he shouldn't just throw his clothes on the floor.

Damon and I even began alternating who picked that night's TV show or movie, but we started to notice that most channels replayed the same episodes over again, rotating throughout the week. Each show had about seven of them and we were both pretty sick of _Baywatch_ at this point.

So, we very quickly realized that we were going to have to find another means of entertainment. Yet another complicated downside to living in a practical ghost town with very little prior knowledge.

On evenings when Damon scours the hospital for blood, I visit the _Blockbuster_ video store on the outskirts of town for a new batch of VHS tapes. It worked out better that way—Damon got what he needed to survive, and I didn't have to deal with the creepiness of skulking through an abandoned hospital in the middle of the night.

I've also discovered that this arrangement is more efficient.

By a landslide.

If we were to run both errands together, we might never accomplish what we set out to do. I hate waiting in the hall—alone and in the dark—while Damon debates over which blood type he is in the mood for. On the other side of things, Damon can't stand perusing the romantic comedy section while I am going back and forth about which movie to choose.

That cuts down our bickering just enough to make us feel like we are being mature. Compromise isn't our strong suit but being flexible sometimes isn't as hard as I thought it would be (a fact I will not tell that stubborn vampire. I can't imagine what he will try to get away with if I tell him that I'm open to other ideas in more than just this scenario).

Besides, more often than not, my plans are the more successful ones.

The only issue that plagues me still is the vivid dreams. The reoccurring nightmare is still a persistent happening. I've lost count of how many times it's happened this week. Hell, I couldn't keep track of it when I was by myself. It seems like every time I close my eyes; I'm setting myself up for another round of torture.

Only, each time, something new pops up.

And when I wake up, those details slowly become fuzzy until I can't quite remember what they were—at least not with any confidence. The amount of restful sleep I'm getting is abysmal. According to Damon, the amount of tossing, turning, and sleep-yelling I do has impacted him as well. It got so bad last night, that he offered to put on _The Bodyguard_ in his room until we both fell asleep. I smile fondly as I recall how I made him admit that he was conceding and therefore lost the bet.

" _Anything that'll let me sleep through the night. If I wake up to the sound of an exorcism again, I might actually lose it."_

I accepted his response, but only because I didn't want to read too much into why I jumped on the opportunity to be so _close_ to Damon so quickly.

Suffice to say, while I have yet to experience a _good_ dream, falling asleep next to Damon is a surefire way for me to discern the difference between real and imaginary when I jolt awake. I'm not nearly as disoriented or scared by the terrors my brain cooked up.

If Damon is getting tired of our new sleeping arrangement, he hasn't said anything about it.

And I'm certainly not going to ask him if he is. The thought of going back to sprawling out in my own bed makes me feel isolated and vulnerable.

"So, what exactly am I supposed to be looking for again?"

"I _told you_ already," I huff. "At least five times now."

"But that was yesterday. You know I tune out after more than five minutes of nagging."

I roll my eyes, making a mental note of the page number before setting my book aside to join him on the sofa. "I don't know. Anything about past lives or resurrection—anything that sounds like it might be useful."

"That's… disappointingly vague."

I peer over his shoulder, hoping to get the gist of whatever spell he is looking at. The section is about the delicate balance between fate and free will. I bristle at the heading. I don't know what to think about this kind of magic. If one's free will is determined by one _predetermined_ destiny, then what did we do to land ourselves in this clusterfuck?

My head is starting to hurt. "I know. Maybe this is pointless. I don't know what half of these incantations are supposed to do!"

"Bon Bon…" Damon says, mouth twisting into a concerned frown. "That doesn't mean you won't figure it out."

"When did you become a motivational speaker?"

He pretends to glance at an imaginary watch on his wrist. "Oh, about… 2.5 seconds ago.'

"How precise."

"You don't sound uplifted. Let me try something else… you miss one hundred percent of the shots you don't take… be the change you wish to see in the world… yada yada yada."

"You suck at this. Maybe you should try a new career path."

He purses his lips indignantly. "Well, I'm certainly doing better than _you."_

He's not wrong. For once, he is the upbeat one. This is fairly odd since he knows even less about this stuff than I do. I angle my body toward him, glancing at the Grimoire. Damon has already resumed his reading (or he wants it to look like he has) and I go back to the armchair I'd been lounging in before he interrupted.

I tuck my legs underneath me and prop the book up on the armrest. My eyes scan page after page, searching for anything familiar. When that fails—again—I turn to the index, hoping that it can narrow down the number of chapters I'd have to leaf through.

_Mind-Altering Rituals, Incantations, and Potions  
(and their countermeasures)_

For whatever reason, I'm particularly drawn to this listing. Though, in retrospect, it is an obvious springboard. Maybe if I get the whole story, I won't need to waste precious time looking for a solution within the world's largest instruction manual.

I'm actually feeling pretty good about my discovery when Damon's snarky voice breaks the silence once more.

"Hey, Bonster…"

"Yes, Damon?"

"… if all else fails… you could always burn this place to the ground. Nothing says, 'fuck you' more than absolute destruction."

I shoot daggers in his direction. "I'm _not_ going to keep that in mind."

He smiles at me, expression smug, and shrugs his shoulders for what seems like the millionth time in the last thirty minutes. "Suit yourself— _I_ think it's a great idea."

"My point exactly."

* * *

I can't sleep.

Not because my body won't let me, but rather I _refuse_ to close my eyes for longer than a few seconds.

I stare at the ceiling, examining every visible inch of it for flaws. Bumps, bits of paint, drips, chipping, marks. Any sign of imperfection really, though I've yet to find one. My head is actually beginning to hurt because I've been looking at it for so long.

I just don't have the heart to move.

I'm acutely aware of Damon's sleeping form five inches to my left. The way his body rises and falls in time to his breathing (which I'm not entirely sure if he does it because he needs to or if it's a pesky human reflex he hasn't been able to kick). And how he has the comforter pulled halfway over his head, blocking the moonlight streaming in through the window.

He needs rest, too. And having observed the darkened circles under his eyes when he was getting ready for bed, I feel guilty. Vampires subsist on blood—it gives them energy in spades, enhances their already extraordinary powers, soothes their hunger—but they can go longer between feedings if they rest as a normal person would. We plan on going out tomorrow night for blood and movies, but that doesn't solve the issue _right now._

I told him we could move our weekly excursion up a day, but he said he'd rather go to bed and keep things as they were.

Why I don't know, but I'm not exactly in a position to complain about consistency in one's routine, as I'm the main one who pushes for it, so I didn't argue with him.

I wanted to, of course, but I exercised restraint I did not know I had.

So, I vowed that I wouldn't make things any more tiring than they already were.

Which I do fabulously… until my eyes grow heavy and begin to sting.

I'm really frustrated with myself. So far, I haven't accomplished any of the things I said I would. We are still stranded here, with someone who tried to skewer one of us, and we have no idea how to escape. Or what put us in Mystic Falls in the first place.

I'm a failure.

As a witch, a friend, and I don't know how to _not_ be.

Tears slide down my cheeks. It's not an ideal reaction—the amount of vulnerability it displays is way out of my comfort zone—but I don't know what else to do. I'm running low on hope, even with the pep talk Damon gave me before dinner.

My brain is so fucked up that I can't even _sleep_ normally. I'm so bad at not being a mess that even a vampire can function better as a human than I can!

I roll onto my side, facing away from Damon. When he does eventually wake up, I don't want him to see that I had been crying the majority of the night.

"… mmm," Damon mumbles sleepily and I freeze.

_So much for that_ , I tell myself, flinching as a string of semi-intelligible words flow out of Damon's mouth.

"Bun Bun… c'mere."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you; just go back to sleep. Everything is fine."

He flings his arm around me, pulling me into his chest. "Then why is your heart beating like a jackhammer?"

_Crippling self-loathing and doubt._ "Biology."

"We're safe," he states with a little more emotion and less half-conscious confusion. "Kai doesn't care about us anymore. You can sleep—I won't let anything happen to you."

Warm floods from the top of my head down to the tips of my toes. I _do_ feel protected. Even more relaxed with Damon's obvious show of chivalry; like I could fall asleep now and not have to worry about shadows or screams or pain.

I pull the comforter up to my neck, smiling to myself when Damon rests his chin in the crook between my shoulder and the side of my face. Once we are settled, he falls asleep immediately, as if nothing we said to each other gave him pause.

Me, on the other hand?

I can feel my body slowly giving in to the exhaustion. My eyelids flutter open and closed, while I try to take stock of our surroundings. The windows are shut and locked, curtains pushed aside so the room isn't pitch-black. Shadows are cast upon the dresser and nightstand and a sliver of lamplight seeps in from underneath the doors. All because the man capable of extreme speed couldn't be bothered to flip the light switch in the hall.

When I'm convinced that nothing resembles any facet of my nightmare, I allow myself to drift off, hoping that something pleasant will play behind my eyes.

* * *

A scrap of paper with the letters G, E, and M printed on it, my hand reaching for it, desperate to grab ahold of it, a strong _need_ to figure out why it is so important. A gust of wind so forceful that I'm knocked on my ass, unable to fight against it as the parchment floats away…

That scene from my dream is superimposed in my head as I shower, dress, and meet Damon in the kitchen for breakfast—which is blueberry muffins that he "whipped up" while I was still trying to pretend it wasn't eleven in the morning. Hiding from the sunlight, cloaked entirely in the puffy blankets that Damon abandoned long before I was conscious.

"Cat got your tongue, Bennett?" he asks, taking an unnecessarily large bite.

"No."

He breaches all levels of etiquette when he continues to talk, mouth half-full. "You're being surprisingly not-judgy this morning. Are you sick?"

"Only of you," I chirp brightly.

"There's my Bon Bon," he says, and he sounds so relieved that I don't know how to respond. I didn't realize that he cared enough to pay attention to my moods—unless I am on my period, that is.

"I'm just… thinking."

"Is that why it smells like burning hair?"

"Shut up—I'm serious. Does the word _gem_ mean anything to you?"

"Gem," he repeats experimentally. "No. Not really. What do gems have to do with this?" He waves his hand in the air, arm sweeping over the entire room.

I glare at him pointedly. "I don't know! That's why I'm asking!"

" _But why are you asking?"_

I sigh, pulling at the wrapper, causing hunks of blueberry to scatter across my plate. "I had a dream about it. And I can't get it out of my head. So… it must mean _something."_

"Maybe it's the key to getting out of here," Damon speculates. "We might have to look for some special rock formation."

"You might be on to something. We need more resources, though. I'm thinking we skip the movie theater and go to the library."

"I don't do libraries," Damon says flatly.

"With all the grammar mistakes you make, you probably should." I lean over the table, resting my head atop my hands.

"But I'm not going to," he is too stubborn to even consider the benefits. "I'll just fly solo."

"To the movies? You hate when I'm not there. What about all the wasted snark? How will you survive not having anyone to complain to?"

"Kai might be there," Damon says. "I'd love to piss him off… fucker deserves it."

"And if he tries to murder you again?"

Damon's facial expression oozes arrogance. "That _isn't_ going to happen again. He got lucky. This time, I'll tap one of his veins and I won't have to drink from a blood bag for a month."

"If you're sure…" I trail off uneasily.

"Oh, I am."

I roll my eyes. Time to switch to another tactic. "It won't be the same without me, you know. I bet Kai is one of those uptight assholes who hate side commentary."

"You mean like you?" he counters. "Don't worry Bon Bon—I'll be fine. I'm not scared of Bargain Basement Freddy Kruger."

"Damon—I want to see _Speed,_ too!"

"I'll just give you the play-by-play tonight." He shrugs, undeterred.

"But it's my night to pick the show!" I protest, voice rising in both volume and pitch. "We agreed on it—you get to be in charge of the movie; I get to choose our evening TV program! You made me spit shake on it!"

"Oh… believe me, I know. But it's your choice: a day of fun or research and development at the crappiest place in Mystic Falls. …That's life, kiddo. Oh, the trials and tribulations you face on your quest for knowledge. So painful!" he clutches his chest as if someone shoved a knife into his heart.

"That's nothing compared to what you'll experience if you spoil the ending," I retort, turning away from him. I keep my gaze on the reflection of our bodies in the patio door.

We exude an air of comfortability despite our mutual agitation. It makes me think about how that may change when (if) we get back to the land of the living. I chew on my bottom lip, anxious and praying that our circumstances won't be altered too much—at least in that respect.

"Damon?" I still don't turn toward him.

"Bon Bon," he says, matching my intonation perfectly.

"Can you promise me something?"

"Anything," he replies automatically. Without thought, not caring if whatever I ask of him will be too much.

"Promise me that we'll always have each other's backs."

"Well, I thought that went without saying, but okay. I promise that I'll have your back. Cross my heart." And then, rather childishly, he says, _"duh."_

Some of the tension in my body, specifically the stiffness in-between my shoulder blades, fades away. That response, however sarcastic, is what I'd hoped to hear. After the research, we'd done and that creepy nightmare, I'm not sure that whatever information I find will be pleasant. In fact, I have a sinking suspicion it will be anything but.

* * *

The only library in the entire town is four blocks away from home.

It's a brick building with a sloping, thatched roof. Ivy climbs up its left side, coating the bricks in bright green, and a small garden nearby from which the foliage originated.

I'm beginning to think that it's a requirement for every separate piece of property to have some kind of plant-life. Is that what people look for in a neighborhood—pretty flowers and the appearance of perfection?

I go through two sets of doors that lead me straight into the lobby. Several hallways are branching off on both sides of the room, each one taking you to a specific section: children's books, non-fiction, fiction, graphic novels…

I head straight to the non-fiction alcove.

The shelves are tall, ranging from ceiling to floor. A thin ladder leans up against one and I find myself hoping that I won't need to climb it to find what I'm searching for. The ambiance is a bit morose; the lighting dark, furniture dark-stained wood, upholstery maroon in color. It's definitely drab, but it's supposed to be that way, it contributes to the calm, serious vibes one is expected to have when studying.

Weaving in and out of narrow aisles, I keep my eyes peeled for the placard with the word _HISTORY_ engraved on it in thin, gold font.

It's located in the very back of the room—the last set of shelves, most of which line the back wall. A small stand is situated in the corner, displaying various newspaper articles.

I thumb through rows and rows of books. Some thick, some not. I breathe in the scent of old paper as I go, comforted by it because the smell reminds me of the spell books I left at home. The ones that are both frustrating and too impractical to lug all the way here.

In the end, I think I've got a decent amount of source material. I opt to read several town history books and old periodicals dating all the way back to the mid-to-late eighteen hundreds. I spread out my selections on a large desk, swiping a yellow notepad and pencil from the librarian's counter. I notice, somewhat sadly, that there is a layer of dust on the nameplate, and I try not to think about whether or not a person ever sat in the rickety swivel chair behind the desk.

Because what is this place _really?_

Something draws me to an editorial written in the year 1890, about the effect the witch trials had on Mystic Falls even hundreds of years later. It named several families whose ancestors were killed due to the suspicion that they practiced magic. I see that my surname is the very first one mentioned. Then, the article goes on to quote a (then) currently living member of the Bennett bloodline: Beatrice, whose maternal relatives were burned at the stake. It pulls at my heartstrings so severely; my eyes burn with tears. They had moved to Virginia to escape the Salem Witch trials and they lost their lives anyway. Their attempt at survival did nothing for them in the end.

I gulp, very aware of the lump forming in my throat. My family faced so much over the years. I wonder if maybe I am cursed—if, despite all my efforts, I'm doomed. What if I don't have a chance of getting out of here? Was my plight written in stone before I entered the world?

The familiar feeling of discomfort takes over me—just as it had when I contemplated the idea of destiny a few days ago. Did I finally get my answer?

_No!_

I'm startled by the ferocity of my own thoughts. My intuition is screaming at me, telling me that I'm not correct in my assumption. However, I know—without understanding how or why—that I'm on the right path. There's a little fire in my chest, small but strong, urging me to keep my head up. Whatever I'm meant to do, I have a gut instinct that it isn't going to be achieved while I'm trapped in this mind-fuck of suburbia.

I sift through stacks of books, loose papers, and hastily-scribbled notes until my fingers curl around the bent corner of a newspaper clipping. My whole hand feels as though I shoved it into a pot of boiling water, but I ignore the scorching pain and read the front-page news story:

_THE PARKER FAMILY MASSACRE._


	10. Bewitched

* * *

**~Chapter Ten~**

* * *

_And so I finished up my prayer, rose slowly and I stared  
But I was empty as a grave and ghostless was the air  
Laid back to bed and dulled my eyes and searched those fruitless skies_

_~Bat for Lashes, Lilies~_

* * *

My hands are shaking as I tear the front page of the newspaper.

I haven’t read the entire article. Just the first sentence, the one directly below the headline:

_One unaccounted for as the investigation into the grisly murders of a local family begins._

I couldn’t go any further than that. It feels like the floor has dropped out from underneath me. This is _huge._ This could be the key to understanding why all three of us are stuck here, and if I can figure _that_ out, I am one step closer to getting us back to _before._

I gather everything in my hands—each book, magazine, and newspaper, and stuff them inside my bag. My heart pounds in my chest as I zig-zag through the labyrinth of shelves and books. It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room, leaving me dizzy and scared.

 _Very_ scared.

As soon as I’m within a few feet of the exit, I thrust my arms in front of me. My legs are going so fast that I nearly topple into the doors. Luckily, I use the handle to regain my balance and I don’t smack into the pavement.

My heart is still going as fast as a hummingbird, my lungs begging for oxygen. I gasp, sputtering and coughing, still hanging onto the library door. Green eyes burning, I blink a few times, struggling to adapt to the change in lighting.

The world around me looks just as it did before—the sun is still shining, puffy clouds high in the sky, which is still its everyday shade of light blue. I try to reconcile _Mystic Falls_ and _massacre,_ and at first, I can’t get them to fit together. But the longer I think about it, the more it makes sense. The nightmares, the dread that I experienced when Damon took me to the field behind the Salvatore Boarding House, the lack of townspeople.

I wonder how many residents died like the Parker family had. All of them—though, that seems highly unlikely, given that Kai told us that _we_ were the dead ones. Could he have it backwards, though? What if everyone else died and we are the last ones standing. I physically recoil at the thought, stumbling over the lip where the sidewalk meets the carpeted flooring of the library’s atrium.

If that is true, then that would mean that Caroline and Elena had passed away. The fact that I allowed myself to go _there_ —to such a depressing place—makes me want to throw up. This line of thought goes against everything I’ve been led to believe. Kai said I sacrificed myself for them… my friends… and I’m vaguely aware of how crazy that is. I only know those girls from a photo. A few snapshots of moments that I can’t recall. Had I really given my life for theirs? If they are that special to me, why can’t I remember them?

All I know about them are things I’ve conjured up in daydreams.

And yet, that tugging sensation in the pit of my belly says otherwise.

I straighten up, hiking my bag upon my shoulder.

I’m a sitting duck right now, standing here like a scared little girl, unsure of what’s around the corner. And I feel stupid. That’s ridiculous—there are exactly two other people here with me and I’ve almost burned one of them alive (or dead, I guess).

 _Damon, too,_ I think ominously, fighting against the urge to relive _that horrid fantasy sequence._ I squeeze my eyes closed and think of anything but Damon on the ground, screaming as the flames get closer and closer…

I take off down the street, speed-walking as I cut across the road, hoping to reduce my travel time. I take exactly seven minutes to get home—I broke my personal record of 9.5—something I wish I could feel proud of.

But I don’t.

The house is empty, which I had been expecting, but I really wish Damon stayed in (and _not_ just because I wanted to go to the movies, too). It would’ve been nice if he were here to calm me down, to remind me I need more information before I worry about whatever else might be going on here.

I climb the stairs and go into our bedroom, snuggling under the covers, and pulling the newspaper article out. Smoothing out the crinkles and folding back the jagged side, I begin reading once more.

_Josette Parker returned home to find six of her family members lying dead in their home. Josette, twenty-two, had been living in the dormitories on the campus of Hartford College before she returned to her hometown of Eastwick (a small suburb located just minutes away from Mystic Falls)._

_The semester had just ended, and she planned on spending her winter break with her parents and three of her siblings. “… she was so excited to come back,” her friend, Wanda M., tells us. “Jo was very protective of her younger sisters and brothers.”_

_Joshua Parker grew up in Mystic Falls before meeting his wife and moving to Eastwick at twenty-one. His mother, Colette, still resides here. His father is buried in Mystic Falls cemetery. Joshua had a younger brother, Phillip, who went missing a year after he moved out of town._

_Joshua Parker and his wife, Sydnie Parker (nee. Laughlin), were found stabbed to death on the first floor of their two-story home on Westview Road. Their children, Joseph (19), Poppy, (17), Marceline (16), Charles (14), were in their respective bedrooms when police arrived on the scene. Each teenager had been bludgeoned to death with various items from each individual bedroom. The names of the murder weapons have not been released yet._

_Joshua and Sydnie’s other children, Lucas, and Olivia (12), and Malachi (22) were not in the home. Luke and Liv—the younger set of Parker twins—were at a friend’s house at the time of the murders. While we cannot confirm their current whereabouts, we are told that they are both alive and safe. Malachi (22)—Josette’s twin brother—has not been located at the time of this publication._

_The investigation is ongoing. For details on how to contact the Mystic Falls police station, turn to page 7b._

I silently curse myself for not bringing the second page home with me, but what I have has provided me with more information than I know what to do with. The newspaper is damp and torn due to how tightly my fingers are gripping it.

My first instinct is to ball the article up and toss it across the room. Thankfully, I stop myself before I carry those actions out. Damon should read this, too, because I can see him not listening to me if I were to tell him about it. Logically, I feel I should find Kai to be more sympathetic—losing so many loved ones at once would turn _anyone_ into a jaded asshole—but I don’t. Closing my eyes and breathing in deeply, I attempt to conjure up a reasonable amount of empathy.

It doesn’t work.

Something about the entire story is _off._ It’s quite unsettling—like whoever wrote this piece either missed something big or hid it, desperate to squeeze a second front-page feature out of the situation. Although, something inside me knows it’s the former. I doubt the journalist would keep out any of the juicy tidbits if it would reel more readers in.

I place the article on the side table. If I forced myself to look at the eerie photograph of the Parker’s home for a second longer, my brain may have short-circuited.

_Okay, so Kai experienced a horrific tragedy. Maybe we did, too. Maybe my “witchy juju” as Damon so affectionately calls it, brought us all here because we endured horrible things. Now, think Bonnie! What would have caused my magic to bring us to a version of Mystic Falls with no residents?_

_Well, I guess it’s time to break out the spellbooks._

Hanging off the side of the bed, I feel around underneath it until my fingers brush against the worn leather spine of a Grimoire. I heft onto the mattress, grumpy that Damon stashed them in such an awkward spot. Since it’s now an unspoken rule that we share the master bedroom (despite having only done so for two days) he _insisted_ on keeping them somewhere out of the way.

Because apparently, at some point during that first night, it ended up on the floor by his side of the bed and he nearly fell over it when he got up. I honestly don’t remember carrying it into the room with me, but it might have been something I did without even realizing it. Half-awake and spooked by your own subconscious does not a rational person make.

This time, when I open it, I don’t have to wonder where I should look. The page I land on is exactly what I’m looking for.

_Unintentional Magic._

How à propos! I have bypassed this section more than once, having had enough _unintentional magic_ incidents to last an (after) lifetime. Today, however, I couldn’t ignore this chapter if I wanted to. My palms are burning, excitement buzzing throughout my body. It’s as if something has _clicked._ Snapped into place after trying to force it to fit a certain way. A lightbulb moment—one that leaves me thinking _duh._ I should’ve looked here the very first time I began flipping through this massive pile of nonsense.

According to the first paragraph, a witch’s emotions can strongly affect his or her ability to control magic. Anger and sadness being the major ones. Happiness could, too, but it doesn’t bring about negative consequences like the other two. _In times of distress,_ it says, _a witch’s reaction to a certain event could greatly alter the intended outcome._

Hence, the time I turned my former room into what resembled a swimming pool in hell.

“That movie wasn’t as good as you said it would be.”

I glance up, smiling, as Damon waltzes into the room. I was so engrossed in my research that I hadn’t heard the front door open.

“Why not?”

I set everything aside, listening to Damon rattle off critiques. “…The only _interesting_ part was when the bad guy loses his head.”

I glare at him. _“I told you not to ruin it!”_

“Believe me,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t.”

“Damon, some people like to form their own opinions about—”

“What did you learn, Nancy Drew?” he nods at the mess of papers strewn across the comforter.

I gather them up, closing the Grimoire and placing the periodical atop the cover. “You tell me.”

“That sounds like the last thing I want to do,” but he takes it from me, anyway. His eyes scan the page, brow furrowing as he gets further into the story. “No wonder that guy has a few screws loose.”

“Do you know what this means?” I prompt, hoping he will fill in the blanks for me.

“That I wasn’t too far off about the ax murder thing? I listened to my gut instinct… hey, does that mean I get to join your witchy club? I can get us matching t-shirts.”

I roll my eyes and groan. “It _means_ that we probably went through a traumatic experience, too! And it landed us _here…_ away from whatever hurt us.”

“And?”

“If we get our memories back, maybe we can _fix_ this!” I throw my arms out. “I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of feeling trapped by my own psyche.”

Damon’s expression darkens. “I don’t know if I _want_ to remember all the shit I did.”

I instantly feel guilty. I know Damon wasn’t lying about not knowing all the sins he felt he had to atone for, I just didn’t know how… _uneasy…_ it made him feel. Looking at him now, it’s clear those “bad things”—whatever they were—plagued him more than he let on.

“Damon…” I fling my arms around his neck, pulling him close. “Whatever you did, it doesn’t change who you are _now._ You’re my best friend, and I can’t imagine what would’ve happened to me if you weren’t here. The awful things you did before… you can’t change them… but you aren’t your mistakes.”

He takes a deep breath and when he exhales, goosebumps form on my skin. I try not to react as he squeezes me tighter, burying his face into the crook of my neck. “And you thought _my_ pep talks were cheesy.”

“I can’t help it,” I say lightly. “I guess you’re rubbing off on me.”

“That’s what she said.”

“… You are such a pain in the ass!”

“That’s what she said.”

I wriggle out of his grasp, pushing him playfully. “Damon!”

“Don’t _‘Damon’_ me— _you’re_ the one who says the innuendos.”

“I don’t mean it that way!” I protest, trying to hold back the laughter bubbling in my throat.

“Uh-huh,” Damon says with a smirk. “I don’t blame you. It’s got to be difficult living with the sexiest man on the planet.”

“Up until now, you were the _only_ man on the planet,” I remind him.

“You can deny it all you want, Bon Bon, but one day you’ll have to admit it.”

“Admit what? That you have your head shoved so far up your ass that you’ll need to have it surgically removed?”

“Funny, I said the same thing about your broomstick.”

“Shut up!”

“What are you going to do about it if I don’t?” he challenges. “Nag me to death?”

I think this over. Supposedly, we are already there. It’s so easy to forget that there is a possibility we aren’t alive. I always pictured death in two ways—either you are granted access to heaven (or hell) or you cease to exist, and in that case, nothing would matter. It’s impossible to truly know what happens when your physical body conks out, but never did I picture being relegated to a place that is both so real and _un_ real at the same time.

As I continue to become more in-tune with my powers, and as _comfortable_ as we are with the way we live, it seems crazy to think that we aren’t. Besides, with so many ways to manipulate the world around me, how _could_ I _not_ undo this?

“I’m going to nag you back to life,” I say finally. “And that’s a promise, Salvatore.”

* * *

_Date: June 20 th ~ Damon and Bonnie time  
Place: 22 Broken Arrow Road (Damon and Bonnie’s room)  
Time: 2:02 in the morning_

* * *

It comes to me in the middle of the night.

The realization smacking me so hard in the face that I feel dazed.

I blink, the edges of my vision blurred, trying to hold onto whatever I’d been dreaming. Only, my mind is blank. I don’t know what I was thinking before I figured out what we—or rather, _I_ —need to do.

I need Kai.

His name flashes before my eyes and I’m revolted by it at first. I don’t trust him, not one iota, but if I intend on keeping my promise (because Damon will never shut up), I need to act as though I do.

 _He lost everyone he loves,_ I remind myself, _Damon’s right—he’s bound to be a little fucked up because of it._

And that doesn’t mean I have to trust him completely. He just knows more about the supernatural than I do. Or more about the witch aspect, at least. Something deep inside is telling me that Kai is my only option.

It’s going to suck, but I can deal with it. As I begin to come to terms with the unpleasantness of the matter, I become disoriented. I feel like an old television; my picture is staticky and distorted. Then, it’s like someone has pulled the plug on me. All of my jumbled thoughts slip away from me in the blink of an eye.

_What was I so upset about a second ago?_

It feels like a knife is being run through my head, the pain sharper on my left side. My hands fly to my temples. I’m hissing in agony as I curl into a ball.

“Bon?”

I hear Damon’s body shifting, feel his hand as he grips my wrist. I can’t see him, though. My eyesight is spotty again, dark splotches intermingling with the darkness of the bedroom.

“I’m fine,” I assure him.

“You sound like me after I ate those cookies you baked the other day,” he counters.

The pain goes away as suddenly as it came. At first, I’m relieved. I lie there quietly, processing what just occurred. One second, I was on top of the world. I felt so close to my goal that I could practically reach out and grab it. Now, I’m empty. Like the moments prior were just a cruel prank.

And to make everything even _more_ embarrassing, I ruined Damon’s night with my weird sleep issues. Again. The guilt that washes over me far outweighs the severity of what I did. I _know_ that. But I want to cry… what if he gets sick of this? What if I lose the only person who understands me?

It occurs to me that my best friend is waiting for my witty quip. Only, I’m so emotional that I can’t come up with a solid reply. So, I eventually settle for a more standard approach.

“… They weren’t _that_ bad.”

“I’m lucky I didn’t spend the whole day throwing up!” he jokes lightheartedly.

I inch closer to him, burrowing my head into his chest. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“For waking you up… for the crime I committed against baked goods.” I sound pitiful. If I were in a normal state of mind, I would shut up. Push all of this nonsense aside, “Bonnie” my way out of this, and wait for Damon to relent and go back to sleep.

“You say that like I’m upset about it,” he murmurs. I can tell he’s smiling.

“I’m a shitty friend,” I insist. “I constantly deprive you of sleep!”

“I’m the one that said you could sleep here,” he points out.

I sigh, worn out and defeated. “Do you think I’ll ever get a decent night of sleep?”

“At some point,” he muses, running his fingers through my hair. “I figure eventually you won’t have a choice—everyone’s got to rest sometime—even the dead.”

I lift my head up, studying his facial expression. He still sounds like he’s kidding… but part of me knows that there’s a grain of truth to be found in what he’s saying. Even cloaked in the darkness, I can tell he’s serious by the way he clenches his jaw. “Being dead sucks.”

“Not all of the time.”

 _That,_ I’m sure, is sincere. I want to say something just as poignant, so, I open my mouth to answer him. But my reply slips away from me as soon as I try to speak. All that comes out of my mouth is a garbled, “argh.”

“Point for Salvatore,” Damon announces smugly.

I decide to let him have this one. I can’t remember what we were even bickering about. I know I should probably be more concerned about my lapse in short-term memory, but it’s much easier to pretend it never happened in the first place.

So, I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep.

* * *

_Time: June 23rd, 1994 ~ Damon and Bonnie time  
Place: 22 Broken Arrow Road_

* * *

I’m in the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets, sifting through drawers, and flipping through the little container filled with recipes. The entire room looks like a tornado hit it—flour coats the countertop and the front of my orange apron, mixing bowls are spread out atop nearly every available space and I can’t find the cap for the gallon of milk.

Damon is out of the house—getting more blood bags and perusing _Blockbuster_. He was puzzled when I informed him that I didn’t want to go, and I trusted his judgement when it came to the movies he chose. I can’t blame him—I don’t easily give up what little control I have, but he figured that it wouldn’t happen again, and he’d better take advantage of this golden opportunity.

Then, I set to work.

I started my day with a goal. To do something special for Damon. Our days have become even more monotonous, especially since I’ve hit yet another roadblock on the “getting us out of here” front. So, I thought it would be fun to shake thing up a bit. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. To make this idea work, I should probably plan a menu, shop, and then execute this at a later date. My impulse was too strong to fight, though. That’s why I look like a mad scientist, covered in various splatters of food. The dinner portion of our meal is still in the oven: a pot roast with veggies. That part wasn’t difficult—at least, not compared to baking.

Our dessert is supposed to be a chocolate cake.

Right now, it looks like Willy Wonka projectile vomited everywhere.

I don’t care what Damon says, cookies were a piece of cake (pun intended). Sure, they didn’t taste the best (I may have mixed up the salt and sugar) but at least you could tell they were cookies. I don’t know how I’m going to turn this catastrophe into something edible.

The oven beeps, signaling that dinner is finished cooking. When I open the oven, I see smoke.

“Damn it!” I hurry to grab the pan and shove it between the carton of eggs and the salt shaker.

After inspecting the food, I realize that it isn’t burnt, but rather the oven needs to be cleaned. Unfortunately, the smoke alarm still goes off and I sprint over to the smoke alarm in the living room. Since I’m so petite, I have to bring the broom along with me. I jam it against the button, the horrible beeping stopping a second later.

When I turn around, I’m met with the true scope of my culinary disaster. The oven door still hangs open, the roasting pan teetering dangerously close to the edge. I see now that the chocolate batter has splattered in various places on the walls. If Damon walks in and sees this, I’ll be ridiculed for eternity.

I groan inwardly, trudging back into the kitchen. At first, I clean as I go, wiping up bits of raw egg, clumps of sugar, and dried chocolate flecks. The finished dinner is placed on the dining room table and I am finally beginning to realize that I won’t be able to fix everything before he gets back.

I’m irrationally disappointed with myself. I just wanted to do something _nice_ , why did I make things so difficult. The thought of Damon laughing at me every time I walk into the kitchen makes me want to scream.

… And then it comes to me.

I don’t have to feel like I’ve failed at a seemingly easy task—I can make all of my mistakes disappear within seconds!

The image of the broken clay pot from Elena Gilbert’s house pops into my head; all it took was a single word to meld the pieces back together again.

I steady myself, closing my eyes, breathing in deeply. The smell of spices and cocoa overwhelms me. I imagine cupboards slamming shut, counters shiny and free from debris, bowls put back where they belong, and a dishrack filled with clean plates, pots, and pans.

 _“Reparium,”_ I open one eye and look around.

Nothing has changed.

This is particularly frustrating. I think about the TV show Damon and I watched a few days ago; _that witch_ wiggled her nose, and everything flew back to where it should be.

I try again. This time, I use a different variant of the spell. I’ve never attempted it, but the principle is similar: instead of mending something broken, you just start with a clean slate. Since nothing needs repairing, there’s a decent chance this one could work.

_“Purus intemeratus!”_

I don’t have to physically look at the scene to know that this spell is doing what it should. I can feel the magic thrumming throughout my body, euphoric and intense. When I do risk a glance around the room, pride swells in my chest. Damon won’t be able to tell that I was even in here. Walking past the once-dirty island, I nod in approval. Something is off, though. One of the handles on the cabinet door doesn’t match the rest of them. Instead of the glittering brass knob, there is now an iron handle. I shake my head and brush off any nervous energy I’m feeling.

 _Just an after-effect of the spell,_ I assure myself.

As I exit the kitchen, I look over my shoulder, just to make sure I wasn’t imagining the change.

Except I must’ve been because nothing appears out of the ordinary now. All of the cupboards match, right down to the brass doorknobs. I guess that’s the price I have to pay for using magic when I’m so tired.

I just hope it ends up being worth it.

_~~X~~_

When Damon returns, I am in the dining room, leaning against the back of one of the chairs. The table is set and I managed to make the cake look like a cake (it doesn’t look like the one you might see in a bakery, but it’s passable).

He pauses in the entryway, a flash of bewilderment in his eyes. “Who are you and what have you done with Bonnie Bennett?”

“It’s me,” I tell him. “In the flesh.”

“No way—the real Bonnie Bennett burns toast. This is _way_ above her skill level.”

“I’ll prove it. I’ll tell you something only the real me would know.”

He smirks. “This should be interesting.”

“Your favorite song is _I Think We’re Alone Now—_ covered by Tiffany.”

Damon’s blue irises darken. “Okay, it’s you. What’s with the elaborate table setting?”

“I just wanted to do something… I don’t know, special,” I feel my cheeks grow hot. I don’t know why I’m suddenly so embarrassed, I’d been pretty excited about it up until this moment.

“Why?”

 _“Because,”_ I intone, exasperated. “All annoying faults aside, I kind of—sort of—like you.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You should be.”

I watch as he hangs his jacket on the rack by the door, and strolls over to me, a half-smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “I don’t think anyone’s ever done something…” he pauses, searching for the right words. “Genuinely kind for me before.”

“Well, you _can_ be an asshole. But you’re a damn good best friend when you want to be.”

“Ditto.”

I freeze as he swoops down and gives me a peck on the cheek. Little warning bells go off in my head, shrill and hard to ignore. _You’re getting too close,_ they say, but I’m having difficulty agreeing with that sentiment.

When Damon straightens up, a smirk replacing the small grin, I wonder if he thinks the same thing.


	11. Your Wildest Dreams

* * *

**~Chapter Eleven~**

* * *

_Say you’ll remember me  
Standing in a nice dress  
Staring at the sunset, babe  
Red lips and rosy cheeks  
Say you’ll see me again_

_~Taylor Swift, Wildest Dreams~_

_Time: June 28 th, 1994 ~ Damon and Bonnie time  
Place: 22 Broken Arrow Road_

_“Love is in the water; love is in the air. Show me where to look, tell me will love be there?”_

“Okay,” I muse, reading the back of the Collective Soul CD case before putting it down. “This one is growing on me.”

“Told you it would,” Damon says triumphantly. “This decade has decent music. I wasn’t a fan of music in the 1800s. It didn’t speak to me.”

“And Kurt Cobain does—how do you even know what he’s saying?”

“I don’t. That’s the beauty of it.”

I lean back, propping myself up with my elbows. We are outside, in the backyard, listening to music. We plugged our CD player into the tiny outlet on the back of the house, spread an old quilt out on the grass, and have been debating the merits of various musical genres ever since.

The sun streams down on us, bathing us in warmth and light. I was tiring of the never-ending sunshine—because a rainstorm is needed every so often—but I’m glad that we embraced it today. I’m relieved to turn my worries off for the moment. I’m not stressing about spells or faded memories or prophetic dreams. Right now, it is just Bonnie and Damon, relaxing.

Being ourselves.

“Nonsense is beautiful?” I question, delighted to keep our conversation going.

Damon snorts. “Not everything has to be deep, Bennett. I’m just saying that it’s open to broader interpretations.”

“Valid,” I concede.

“You’re in a surprisingly pleasant mood. Very non-argumentative. You also slept like a rock last night.”

I remember waking up in Damon’s arms this morning, groggy but content. I’m fairly sure that I experienced a loop of nightmares last night, however all I can recall is a vast expanse of blackness, unyielding and fuzzy around the edges. At first, it was bothersome. Not because I _liked_ to scream and thrash around all night, but because I thought I might be taking several steps back on the witch thing.

My powers are intact, though. I’ve used little bits of magic throughout the day. Small, inconsequential spells like levitation or simple locator incantations. The latter is convenient because Damon has a penchant for losing things that belong to me. Finding people takes much more effort—deeper concentration, something from the person you wish to find, and a map for larger searches. Our calendar or the teddy bear I found in the attic doesn’t drain half as much energy (luckily for me).

So, I’m okay with not remembering the things that happen when I’m asleep. I was never fond of that ability, anyway.

I lie back, cradling my head in my hands. “I know. It was… peaceful.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“I feel like I won’t be scared to close my eyes tonight!” My voice is dripping with relief.

Damon doesn’t say anything right away. “… So, does that mean you’re going back to your room?” he sounds curious, but unbothered—like either option would be alright.

“Does it matter?” I bite my lower lip and pick at my cuticles.

The next few seconds seem more like hours. “Well, from the decades I can remember, I don’t recall sleeping by myself very often.”

“You sound like the narrator in one of those cheesy romance novels we found upstairs,” I say, wrinkling my nose.

“Ugh, Bon Bon. Are you really going to make me say it?”

“Say what?” I am bewildered. Sometimes this dance we do around certain subjects is dizzying.

He groans—loud, dramatic, and exasperated. “I’d rather we stay together. Safety in numbers and all that.”

“I though you weren’t scared of Kai.”

“I’m not scared,” he rolls his eyes. The way the sun hits his irises makes it hard to look away from them.

I’m mesmerized.

“I’m being cautious—I’m not the only one that likes to rub off on people.”

It takes me a second to comprehend what he’s told me. “Oh, _gross Damon!”_

“You aren’t a good actress, Bennett. The faux innocence isn’t that believable anymore.”

“It’s not… ugh… I’m just…” I trip over my words, flustered and irritated.

“It’s okay, Bonster. I’m used to women getting tongue-tied around me,” Damon pats my leg, smiling at me reassuringly. Once again, I find myself resisting the urge to think about how I’m beginning to consider exactly how our interactions are changing, slowly morphing into something more.

It’s becoming more intense by the day. I know Damon must notice the way the mood lightens when he walks into the room, how I perk up, the corners of my mouth rising in a smile I can’t hold back. He can hear the way my heart flutters in my chest, of that I’m sure, but he keeps his composure. If he has a similar response to me, he hides it well. My senses are nowhere near as sharp and it’s not like he blushes. There were times, when I first realized what was happening, that I was thankful he didn’t seem to be paying attention. Now… I’m beginning to wonder if he has ever thought of me in terms of attractiveness or sex appeal.

If I linger on that thought for too long, I get self-conscious. And then I get angry because why the hell should I care? We have more pressing matters to handle. But sometimes, I can’t help myself. I step over the line we’ve been toeing to see if I can illicit some kind of flirtatious response from him.

Like right now, for instance.

“You like sleeping with me,” If I weren’t feeling so brazen, I might have phrased it as a question, my voice light and teasing. But it comes out as a statement—an irrefutable fact.

“And you _sound_ like me,” he smirks. “I like it.”

 _Ugh. Of_ course, _he sidesteps the actual meaning._ “Seriously? Why does everything have to be about you? You haven’t gotten tired of yourself yet?”

“Rude—but no, I haven’t. I’m an asshole, but I’m not boring. That’s my brother’s thing. He’s a buzzkill at parties.”

“I can’t believe you… you’re so… _infuriating!”_ There’s a rational voice in my head that says I’m blowing this out of proportion, but my emotions are much louder and more assertive.

“Someone’s got her panties in a bunch. What are you so upset about exactly?”

“I don’t have to explain myself,” I huff, getting to my feet. My sneakers thump loudly against the patio as I stomp into the house. I don’t open the sliding glass door with my hands. I push it open with a burst of magic, which I then used to slam it shut. The house is still rattling as I curl up on the couch with my Grimoire.

_~~X~~_

_(Sometime later…)_

When Damon comes inside, I’ve cooled down enough to recognize that I probably owe him that explanation, and an apology, but he doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to listen to either.

He breezes by me, the yellowed parchment paper inside the Grimoire fluttering upward as he moves past me.

“Damon?” I say quietly. “Come back here, please.” I hold my breath, fully expecting him to ignore me. I wait for the sound of his boots echoing in the foyer, but it doesn’t come. I let out the breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding.

“What do you want, Judgy?” Damon demands and I flinch at how harsh he sounds.

“To… say sorry… for going off on you like that. I didn’t mean it.”

“What did I do to piss you off so much? You acted like I killed a fucking puppy or something. I wasn’t even trying to be a dick!”

I bite my lip, hoping to come up with a logical, less embarrassing reason for my outburst, but I have to be direct. I owe him that, at least. “Nothing. It was more about what you _didn’t_ do.”

“I’m lost.”

“You don’t want to have sex with me!” I blurt out.

_“What?”_

“We’ve been trapped in this desolate wasteland for almost two months and you haven’t thought about sex _at all_? Not once?”

He snorts. “Of course, I have! I thought that was obvious. Do you even hear what I say half the time?”

“Oh, I do. It’s disgusting. Well, it used to be. But… now… it’s still obnoxious, but maybe I can understand why people would want to…” I pause. “… you get the point.”

“I’m not sure I do,” Damon says slyly. “Are you saying you want to jump my bones, Bennett?”

“I said I could see why someone would _want_ to,” I correct, regretting every word I’ve spoken in the last five minutes.

I know he doesn’t respond right away because he wants to see how flustered it will get me. I try to regain my composure, remain even keeled in the face of potential embarrassment. I worry that it’s not working too well.

“That means a lot—especially coming from you, Bon Bon.”

I blink. How should I take that? “It isn’t anything you haven’t heard before.”

“Obviously,” his ego is sufficiently bolstered. “But you kept saying that I was deluded, which is very hurtful, by the way. Besides, I won’t wax poetic about how pretty you are… that’s not our thing.”

I motion for him to continue.

“We have a different dynamic—not everything has to be a big deal, or so I’ve been told. I figured if something were going to happen… it would just happen,” he shrugs.

“You listened to something I said _and_ remembered it? I’m impressed.”

“I knew you would be,” he smirks.

I close the book, placing it on the coffee table. I search for the perfect reply, something both witty and direct. Something that will convey exactly how I feel: surprised, happy, slightly unsure of myself. I didn’t think Damon would be so upfront. I was prepared for his usual sarcasm; I was on the defense, and my entire playbook has been rendered useless now that I see I didn’t need to be.

“I know you, Damon. If you want something, you get it—by any means necessary.”

He shrugs. “I do, but I feel like I’ve had to prove myself for so long… with my parents…” he stops, shaking his head slightly. “And people I don’t remember… and it sucks. I imagine it’s been that way for a long fucking time. You… don’t make me feel like that.”

“I like you, Damon.”

“I like you, too, Bonster.”

“… So, does that mean _you’ve_ thought about it?”

“I think you already know the answer,” he says, kicking off his boots. Walking away, leaving them in the middle of the living room floor.

“You’re a slob,” I call after him, deciding to drop the other matter for now. One of my biggest pet peeves is Damon, leaving his belongings in the exact place they shouldn’t be. It’s an even bigger irritant now that I know he does it just to be annoying.

“I know,” he shouts back, and I can tell he’s already walked into the master bathroom by the way his voice echoes.

I hear the shower turn on and stare at the photo of my grandmother. It is as if she can see everything, like she’s watching us. Like she just _knows_ everything. A sentient still frame.

I bow my head, burying my face in a pillow. For all I know that crazy idea may actually be a plausible thing. And, well, that just adds to the awkwardness of the conversation Damon and I were having. Untangling my legs, I shift my body so I’m lying on my back, pillow still covering my face.

_I just want normalcy. Or something like it. Stability, maybe?_

Normalcy means giving up my magic, which makes me feel like I might die. I can’t imagine not having it now. I don’t want to go back to feeling empty and lost. Stability. I want bits and pieces of my old life back. Caroline, Elena, my grandmother… I want to know and love them the way I’m supposed to.

That’s why I settle on stability instead. I have that with Damon—to an extent. We could have so much more, though, if I got my shit together. My emotions are running so high that my head spins.

 _One thing at a time,_ I tell myself.

Breathing in deeply, I clear my mind. I don’t know where to begin… probably with the least complicated situation. I go over my problems one by one, examining everything that’s been bugging me lately.

My magic, Damon, my inability to remember _anything,_ Damon… clearly, there’s a trend here, and it puts knots in my stomach. Why does the problem with the simple solution have to be the one that exposes my emotional vulnerability?

I wonder if the Bonnie of the living had this many hang-ups about intimacy. I think she did, _I know she did,_ and that makes me more than uncomfortable—it makes me angry. I can make something out of nothing, start a fire by _thinking_ about it, put a person on the ground by just willing their brains to pop a few blood vessels.

And I got tongue-tied around _Damon?_ The man I know better than myself? Frustration surges once more, leaving me anxious and more decisive than I’ve ever been. I need to get a grip, face my fears head-on, and take whatever happens in stride.

Damon didn’t turn me down, he just tactfully avoided a direct answer, in a way that would make me proud. I never truly believed that he could censor _any_ of his thoughts, and he seemed to consider how his words would make me feel.

I guess we influence each other far more than I realized.

And it’s a _good_ thing.

Stranger things have happened, I suppose, but I think this one tops them all.

* * *

_Time: That night ~ Damon and Bonnie time  
Place: 22 Broken Arrow Road ~ Bonnie and Damon’s room_

* * *

I glance at the clock ticking away on the wall.

10:47.

I can hear Damon washing the dishes downstairs, the water hitting the basin loudly. Then glasses clinking as he places them on the drying rack. Silence. The refrigerator opening and closing. Footsteps.

A rush of adrenaline. It feels weird. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt like this before—confident, bold, like I’m on top of the world. The anticipation is heady, addicting. I don’t know if Damon will dodge my attempt to broach the subject again, but I feel confident that his response won’t alter my mood either way. Later, I’ll probably think differently, but that’s not a worry _now._

I sit up straighter as Damon enters our room, running my fingers through my hair, opening the worn copy of _Fight Club_ he “found” lying around the house. He got it from the library, of course. I can tell because there is a sticky film on the spine where there used to be a label for the Dewey Decimal System. He’s steadfastly insisting that he still doesn’t do libraries— _think of the myth about churches, but worse. Instead of bursting into flames, I’ll die of boredom—_ so I stopped correcting him. The more I stated the opposite, the more dramatic his stories became.

Peeking over the pages, I watch him as inconspicuously as I can manage. He looks at me, and I put the book in my lap. “Hey, what took you so long?”

“It’s called procrastination,” he says. “It’s a very refined skill. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“So… what your saying is you got distracted by soap bubbles.”

“Well, now I’m distracted by the fact that you raided my wardrobe,” he nods at the t-shirt I put on before I climbed into bed. It is one of his heather gray tees. They fit him perfectly. On my slight frame, it looks like an awkwardly short dress.

I shrug nonchalantly. “It must’ve gotten mixed in with my laundry.”

“Interesting.”

“It looks better on me,” I press, willing myself to remain confident. “It probably looks even better on the floor.”

“You hate when I throw stuff on the floor,” he sounds extra smug. He’s not going to make this easy, it seems, but what did I expect? Damon _lives_ for our back-and-forth exchanges. The mini-power struggles that were once frustrating and became fun as time went by.

“I think I’ll get over it.”

“How?”

I falter. “I think you know how,” I retort.

“Spell it out for me,” he counters with a smirk.

“I meant what I said earlier. You’re a dangerous influence. You know I’ve thought about having sex with you… you’ve thought about having sex with me; the answer’s right in front of us: we should make those thoughts a reality.”

He mulls it over. “That doesn’t sound like the prim and proper Bonnie I know and love,” he places a cool hand on my forehead. “Are you feeling okay?”

_“Yes.”_

“Then why are you trying to seduce me?” his hand travels down my face, palm resting on my cheek.

“Trying?” I repeat. “As in not working?” _Ouch._

Damon snorts in what I can only assume is amusement. “I didn’t say that… there you go again, twisting my words again. Is that a witch thing or a Bonnie thing?”

“Arguing semantics? What do you think?” The bravado I had minutes ago is seriously dwindling. I kick the covers back and slide under them, as if they will protect me when I understand the extent to which I embarrassed myself.

“It’s a Bonnie thing—I like it.”

I say nothing. My body is still, and I’m silently grateful that I can still look him in the eyes.

“Don’t get me wrong, I still think it’s annoying. But in a cute way.”

My eyebrows furrow. It’s a subtle change; the sort of movement only a vampire would notice.

“It’s also a Bonnie thing to overthink everything either of us does. It’s right or wrong—there’s no in-between with you. I don’t want you to regret it in the morning.”

“I won’t,” there’s an unwavering certainty in my voice that I’m not used to. Damon smirks, but I think I’ve convinced him he’s the one who’s overthinking things in this case. “Are you really worried about that?”

I can’t tell if he is serious or not. That arrogant look is still on his face but given what he’s told me about what he knows of his past, it wouldn’t shock me if he meant it—you know, deep, deep down.

Damon doesn’t confirm or deny the validity of his statement. Instead, he looks at me and then at the empty hamper in the room’s corner. “I’m throwing everything on the floor.”

“Go ahead, I _dare_ you.”

He grins at me devilishly. Damon never backs down from a challenge. “Where should I start?”

“Take a wild guess.”

* * *

I’m feeling chipper the next morning. Once again, it is as though I’m on cloud nine. My body feels loose, and there’s a goofy smile on my face that was probably plastered there the entire night. Damon is Damon, and while he doesn’t seem as outwardly giddy as I do, I know he’s happy.

When we were lying in bed earlier, limbs intertwined more tightly than usual, he pressed his lips to my cheek before getting up. I had stayed perfectly still, eyes closed, breathing slow and even. I didn’t want him to realize I was awake; I was afraid that he might take it back if he thought I caught him in yet another moment of emotional openness.

That’s one thing I hadn’t considered; that _he_ might regret it.

“I don’t,” he says out of nowhere.

I lift my head up, fork in front of my mouth. It feels like I’m frozen in time, but the steady dripping of pancake syrup on my plate says otherwise. I don’t put it down. I didn’t want to break the illusion, didn’t want this moment to shatter into a million little pieces—especially if he means what I think he does.

“What?”

He can’t answer, however, because he’s interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.

We both turn toward the front door. Damon places his coffee mug on the table. My forkful of pancake (or vamp-cakes because he put blueberry eyes and whipped cream fangs on them) falls onto my plate, clanking against the glass.

As if I’m in a dream, I rise from my chair and walk into the foyer.

Of course, I know who it is before I even make it to the door. As I get closer, I try to figure out what he could _possibly_ want from us now. I’m on guard, a spell ready to go if he doesn’t intend on being civil.

When the door swings open, Kai stands before me, a cheerful grin on his face, a bouquet of bright, orange flowers in his left hand. He’s wearing the same outfit he had on all those weeks ago.

“Morning neighbor,” he says, thrusting the flowers into my hands. His fingers brush against my knuckles and I wheel back, nearly dropping his odd gift on the floor. As it is, several leaves have fallen off the long stems and fluttered on the ground.

“What do you want?” I spit out, hands shaking uncontrollably.

“To give you a peace offering,” he nods at the cellophane-covered bundle in my arms. “A sorry for almost killing your best friend gift, so to speak.”

“Why?”

“I moved next door,” he jerks his head to the side. He’s talking about the yellow house to the right of us. The only difference between the two houses is the colors of the siding and flowers that line the walkway. “Thought it’d be rude not to make amends.”

 _You need him,_ a snake-like voice hisses. It sounds so real… only neither one of us said anything else.

“How kind of you,” Damon sneers, joining me in the hallway.

“I thought so,” Kai agrees. And then after a beat, “I didn’t want to relocate, but it’s taking you _forever_ to figure it out. Face it, sweetheart. You need my help.”

I pretend he’s talking to Damon. It’s a hard sell, though, because his eyes are boring into mine. He’s staring into my soul and I squirm uncomfortably.

Thankfully, Damon acts like Kai was addressing him, too. “That’s the _last_ thing we need.”

“Are you sure about that? There’s nothing here. Literally. Whatever you do, you’re doomed to relive the same day repeatedly. Nothing ever changes. It’s a real drag… don’t you want to see the people you worked so hard to save? It has to suck, knowing you played martyr for friends you know nothing about.”

“We’ve got that covered, thanks.”

I’m about to echo Damon’s sentiment when Kai cuts in. “They haunt you, too, Bonnie. Don’t they?”

“We should hear him out,” my voice is low. Emotionless. His question chills me to my bones. And I know, without a doubt, that my hunch is correct. Damon and I need Kai to escape.

I can’t look away from him—it’s almost like standing in front of a mirror. The tormented expression on our new neighbor’s face… it’s a carbon copy of the one I wear after waking from a nightmare.

Kai looks me over and I feel naked. That could be because I’m still dressed in Damon’s oversized t-shirt. The hem grazes my knees, and the sleeves hang halfway down my arms. It does a decent job of covering me, really, but it feels like he can see inside my head. As though he can watch the few memories I’ve been able to make and keep like a movie.

I shiver, reflexively grabbing Damon’s hand.

The vampire sighs, eyes flitting from me to our unwelcome guest. “I will not be nice.”

“Noted,” I rasp, my mouth and throat dry.

“Understandable,” Kai says with a casual shrug.

And so, I back away from the doorway, allowing the jerk to enter the house. We lead him into the dining room, neither of us wanting to give him more access to our home than necessary. We each take a seat; I make sure that Kai is on the opposite end of the table. I close my eyes and think about the red candle sitting smack dab in the middle of us, lighting it without exerting very much energy.

If Kai catches on to my silent warning, he says nothing.

“So,” he begins, leaning back, placing his hands on the back of his head. “You two have some kind of secret language.”

Damon and I exchange a confused look.

He gestures to us, rolling his eyes. “You talk with your eyes… it’s creepy.”

“We do not!” This, of course, is said in unison.

“And annoying.”

“Just get to the point,” Damon snaps.

“Okay, okay,” he holds his hands up in surrender. “Still not a fan of small talk, I see. Maybe I’m not the one who needs to improve his social skills. Listen, Bonnie, I like you. And I want to help you. You’re clearly a natural with magic—I’ve never seen someone so powerful. And I come from a family of witches as big as yours.”

“You do?”

“See—there you go again, saying the same thing at the same time. You’ve _got_ to stop that. You guys remind me of the twins from _The Shining.”_

“You’re a psychopathic lunatic,” Damon says snidely. “Why should we believe you?”

“Damon, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Are we having a moment? I think we are having a moment. Anyway… if you _insist_ on making a big deal out of this, I’ll show you.” He flicks his wrist and the tiny flame I ignited grows so tall, sparks fly upward. Another movement, and the fire is no longer burning. In its place is a thin wisp of grayish-white smoke.

I stare at the wick, breathing in the smell of melting wax. I’m entranced by how quickly he snuffed the flame out, flummoxed because he didn’t lift a finger to stop me when I nearly set the whole grocery store ablaze.

“… I’ve been trapped here for a long time,” Kai says, and I blink. Has he been talking this entire time? “Ever since my family died… I don’t know who’s magic sent me here. All I want is to go home and find whoever did this to them… I want to see my sister again.”

He pauses, overcome with emotion. Tears form in his eyes. Suddenly, I feel an odd connection with Kai. Like we’re kindred spirits—we want to _know_ why we’re tortured by a life we are so far removed from. And if he experiences the same kinds of things I do, maybe he can tell me how to cope with it.

I risk a glance at Damon. I can’t read his facial expression. This time, he’s the one that searches for my hand. His fingers lace between mine and he relaxes a bit. Kai frowns but turns his attention on my best friend.

“Don’t you want to see your brother again, Damon?”

I know he does.

I think about how happy that would make him. Sometimes, in the minutes before we both fall asleep, he’ll tell me stories about Stefan. He’ll talk about the games they used to play as children, the moments when he stepped in to face his father’s wrath if his little brother got in trouble, how he was angry at him for so long but never stopped loving him. It’s the in-between parts he struggles to speak about. He remembers that Stefan was the main reason he turned, but he can’t figure out _why._

And it frustrates him.

Of course, he’d gladly keep himself in the dark if it meant he didn’t have to relive the things he’s so ashamed of. But… if I could shed light on the stuff he wants to know—and nothing else—I’d do it in a heartbeat.

“What would we need to do?” I ask, slightly suspicious. This seems too easy; there has to be a catch.

“Promise you won’t try to kill me, for starters.”

“And?”

“Well, Bon, we might be in a magical prison, but that doesn’t mean I’ll help you for free. I need something in return, nothing big, just a favor.”

“No,” Damon interjects. “No fucking way. And stop calling her Bon.”

“You’ll get to see your sister again, what more do you want?”

“Your blood.”

I’m taken aback. Damon has never asked for my blood. Not once since I found out he needed it to survive. What could Kai—a self-proclaimed witch—want with it?

“Yeah, not going to happen,” Damon deadpans.

“Why?”

“Bennett blood is extremely powerful,” Kai explains. “A drop of it could magnify any spell ten times. And, well, I could use the extra boost when we get back to the real world. I’m assuming whoever went Lizzie Borden on my family is still out there… I need to protect Jo. And I’m out of practice—” he snaps his fingers to demonstrate. The candle flickers, but it goes out a millisecond later. “If you gave me a vial, I could make sure my twin sister lives a long, threat-free life.”

_Isn’t that why I’m here? Because I wanted my friends to be safe? That’s all Kai wants._

Damon senses the wheels turning in my head. “Bon Bon, we can’t trust this weasel.”

“Can’t we?” It doesn’t even sound like I’m the one talking. I don’t even know why I am advocating for Kai. Damon’s right—he’s a slimy person. And yet… I could help so many people if I agreed to his terms…

I glance at Damon out of the corner of my eye. He’s tense, on high-alert, and I don’t want him to worry. So, I ask our visitor to leave. I walk him to the door, and my best friend wants no part in seeing him out. His version of a goodbye was, _“don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out… on second thought…”_ before turning on his heels and sauntering off in the opposite direction.

As Kai turns to go, he pauses in the doorway, and turns around.

Wordlessly, he places a scrap of paper in my palm, curling my fingers around it.

After I can no longer see his retreating form in the window, I unfurl the paper and examine it. _12 Mockingbird Circle. See you at eight,_ it says, and I instantly know why he gave me this note. This evening, Damon will be on the other side of town, stocking up on his blood supply. Kai and I will be able to negotiate a deal without stressing Damon out. There’s a part of me that feels bad about not telling him, but once I fix everything, it won’t matter.

All I want is for us to be happy in a place where death doesn’t hang over us like a guillotine. That’s not too much to ask, is it?

_~~X~~_

I’m waiting under a streetlight on Mockingbird Circle, impatiently tapping my foot as I watch for Kai.

The sky is a dusky blue with a dash of pink. The moon a sliver of white—a waning crescent. If I squint, I can make out a cluster of stars. I wish I could appreciate the nighttime beauty, but I’m too nervous. I left the video store at 7:47 and Kai should’ve gotten here shortly after I did.

“Bonnie!”

I turn around, and I see a shadowy silhouette approaching me.

I freeze, thinking of the dark, almost shapeless forms from my dreams. But I relax once I can make out a few of Kai’s features.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, but he doesn’t sound apologetic.

“I don’t care,” I say tersely. “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

“I’ll do my part first—I’m not a total dick—but as soon as it’s over, I’ll need payment for my services.” Something about the formal way he explains it puts me on edge.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Fine. But I need to know we’re in the right place first.”

“Duh—that’s where the extra work comes in. You’ll need your memories back.”

“How do I do that?”

“We’ll start off slow,” Kai says. “Close your eyes and clear your head.”

“Here?”

“Where else would you do it?”

I do as he instructs, uneasy but determined to prove that I won’t need his help for long.

“Now, think about the things that gave you déjà vu and take my hands."

So, I do.

* * *

~ _An indeterminable amount of time later…~_

* * *

“Earth to Bonnie!”

A familiar voice rings in my ears, causing a rush of happiness. I would know that voice anywhere! Caroline!

It seems silly now, as I blink, trying to get my bearings, that I could have ever forgotten what my best friend sounds like. The bright, overly confident way in which she speaks.

My eyes adjust to the change in lighting, fingers curling around something smooth and very hot. I blink a few more times, realizing that I’m gripping a metal patio table so tightly that my hands ache. To my right, there is a chalkboard style menu mounted on red brick. The words _Daily Specials_ written in curly, unevenly spaced cursive. Underneath the heading, I see a list of lunch options—all half-priced—but the one that sticks out the most is the last one on the list:

_The Mystic Grille Monster Burger._

So, this must be _before._

“Bon, _hello!”_

I turn in the direction of Caroline’s voice. “Yes?”

She sits in the spot across from me, long legs crossed, semi-concerned expression on her face. Her blonde hair is tied back in an unusually low-effort style, though it still somehow looks put-together. A denim jacket is draped on the back of her chair. She’s tapping her fingers on the table, her daylight ring glinting in the sunlight.

“Are you okay? You totally spaced out on me,” she furrows her brows and leans across the table, placing her hand on top of mine.

I pull back as if it was Kai who grabbed me and she frowns, hurt, but she doesn’t give me space. “I’m worried, Bon. Did someone pass through you?” She whispers the last part, as if anyone would even understand if they overheard her.

I glance over my shoulder. The outdoor eating area is located in back of the _Mystic Grille._ And despite the perfect, late-spring weather, the patio is practically empty. Aside from us, there is a waiter taking the order of a young couple and a few other employees milling about.

Looking at the other patrons, I feel a strange pang in my chest. Instinctively, I crane my neck searching for Damon. I feel scared. I _can’t_ be here without him. The thought of being separated panics me. I don’t know why it feels so intense, but I’ll lose it if I can’t find him.

“So, when’s your boyfriend getting here?”

“My boyfriend?” I wonder how much I’ve missed being gone for so long. Had I dated anyone before I died?

She rolls her eyes. “Damon. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

I try not to think too deeply about the emotions stirring inside me. What exactly does Caroline know about the last few months. Were Damon and I a thing before we ended up in that so-called prison?”

“Don’t look so upset, Bon. Elena will get over it,” Care rolls her eyes. I get a flash of my other childhood best friend screaming, crying, begging for Damon. I’m irrationally jealous, but I also feel like something is _wrong._ “She chose Stefan, after all,” The blonde-haired vampire seems bitter about that last remark.

I’m definitely out of the loop. I go over the things that I know now that I’m here.

One, I’m a witch. Two, Elena and Caroline are vampires. Three, Elena is mad at me because of my feelings for Damon. Everything else is a mystery, but it’s one I push to the side as soon as I catch sight of a figure behind Care’s shoulder.

_Damon._

I feel relieved, like even though home feels weird, that it’ll be okay now that I’m not alone in it.


End file.
